


Die by the Drop

by Vindsie



Series: Gold the herald of the morning [2]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, F/M, Gramander, Grindelwald is basically Saruman, M/M, Magic-Voiced Fascism, Other, Slow Burn, The Knights of Walpurgis wear purple KKK robes, grindelnewt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2018-12-24 00:07:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 40
Words: 120,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12000783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vindsie/pseuds/Vindsie
Summary: It's 1927, and the newly reinstated co-DMLE Percival Graves travels to Paris to attend the Wizarding Congress regarding sightings of the escaped dark wizard Gellert Grindelwald. Uneasy with the situation back in NY, Graves is plagued by paranoia and by foreboding. His magic depleted and his position precarious, Graves expects trouble.In Paris, he crosses paths with one Mr. Scamander, there to give a reading of his newly published and vastly successful bestiary.And then with Grindelwald himself, who seems strangely intent upon recruiting the magizoologist...





	1. Catopromancy

**Author's Note:**

> I've read widely across this fandom on ao3, and definitely have borrowed from other authors--I try and cite influence but if I've missed something, if you see something you think is yours and I haven't given due credit, notify me and I'll rectify this negligence. This story adopts a variety of common elements of fanon, not all of which can be traced back to one source as far as I can tell.
> 
> Locations are based very, very loosely on real-world places. This stuff is un-beta'd. If you spot any errors, it's all on me. Commissioned illustrations by brilliant artists can be found in various chapters... and chapter length is hideously inconsistent, as you will find as you get toward the end. Finally, any feedback is welcome and appreciated.

**Chapter 1: Catopromancy**

Wearing his own face was a simple pleasure, and one which Grindelwald savored in the months following his arrest and escape. Graves had been handsome, he supposed, in a severe way, but he had none of the easy charm that lent Grindelwald’s words their incantatory quality. Not only his spells, which were powerful enough, but his ideas, elegantly worded, might persuade witches and wizards to act on his wishes. His voice could sway minds and enchant senses. He met his own mismatched eyes in the mirror and smirked, self-conscious as only a narcissist could be. Graves had a dull role to play, and the vision of Credence and a powerful child—he had assumed it was another child, the figure had emanated wild, raw magic—had lent relief to play-acting the bureaucrat.

Ah yes, his face was a welcome sight in the mirror. The Auror’s hawkish brows and piercing eyes reminded him of the trouble he had gone through to subdue the man.

He tapped the mirror with the tip of his wand, and its surface went chalky and black. From a handkerchief in his coat pocket he withdrew a lock of grey-speckled black hair, and brushed this along the mirror’s surface in a convoluted shape, in the rune for the All-Seeing Eye. It was not difficult to peer into the present. The future was fluid, but the present was clearly defined. A two-way mirror could do the trick, though his scrying mirror was rather more advanced. The mirror shivered and the surface opened upon a man with familiar hawkish brows and piercing eyes set over dark circles.

Percival Graves looked unwell. He suppressed a shudder. His narrowed eyes traced the perimeter of the chamber.

“Problem, Graves?” came a strict voice.

“No, Madam President,” said Graves.

“Then what do you think?”

“You know very well what I think, Madam President,” said Graves, bringing his focus back to Seraphina Picquery. 

“I do not accept it, for the last time,” said Picquery, and though her tone was steely, her eyes softened. “You are the best Director this department has had. Stop attempting to resign and do your damn job, Percival. I’ve read your evals. I understand you’re feeling paranoid lately. I'll repeat what I told you before: that’s a normal reaction. We need you right now. MACUSA does, and I do—Goldstein can’t handle this on her own. Between your experience and her resolve, your partnership will successfully lead Magical Law Enforcement.”

“Have you, uh, considered the _issue_? The one which I mentioned to you last time?” said Graves, looking desperate. Grindelwald’s mouth quirked maliciously on his side of the mirror.

“There is no precedent, Percival. We had the best Healers look you over. Whatever long-term effects you endure, you will not be alone,” Seraphina took an elaborate silver case from within her desk and withdrew a cigarette, which she placed into a dainty holder. She leaned forward expectantly, perching the holder between her lips.

Percival Graves snapped his fingers and amber sparks ignited Picquery’s cigarette.

“See?” she said, with a pleased smile. “With wordless, wandless casting like that, you’re miles above average.”

“I don’t need to be above average,” Graves ground out. “I need to be back to normal." 

“Give it time,” said Picquery, exhaling a whorl of smoke. “Your progress has been excellent. The curse-breakers will figure it out soon, now. Meanwhile, you and Goldstein can work together. When you are in top form again, we can bring Goldstein to be lead Auror and the department will be yours again.” 

“Very well,” said Graves, after a long pause. He sighed a ragged sigh. “But I request we have our meeting chambers warded against all forms of eavesdropping. There have been too many leaks of late, and I fear someone has been confiding to the wrong sort. I want wards against scrying and Apparition and Animagi, among other measures, before we proceed.”

Seraphina huffed out a smoky breath and nodded. “Very well, Graves. I will expect you to brief Goldstein and maintain the weekly status reports.”

She rose to leave.

“Oh, and Madam President?” Graves rose to survey her across the table. “Leave Goldstein to manage the department here. Send me to WICA, with Goldstein.”

Seraphina Picquery frowned and shrugged. She was prepared to humor her reinstated co-Director.  
  
Grindelwald, too, frowned at his scrying glass. Could Graves feel his gaze? Or had his captivity induced a mental breakdown? Either option was acceptable. He would have to spook his former prisoner from time to time, lest his caution interfered with Grindelwald’s plans. It would be delightfully easy—he remembered how defiantly Graves had glared at him, immobilized and bound, fear lurking just behind the fury in those dark eyes.

Grindelwald prided himself on judging how to play someone’s fears against him. Graves had balked at not being in control, at not being in the know, at losing his strength to the Draining Curses and unlabelled potions Grindelwald had forced down his throat. Grindelwald had rather enjoyed giving him tidbits of news here and there to tease his horrified curiosity. Telling and showing Graves how easy and boring his job was, how he had sentenced his former Auror and the magizoologist to death, how he would unleash the Obscurus and overthrow the Statute of Secrecy… Perhaps he should have killed Graves – Graves had clearly expected to die – but the Director was of a noble family, and restoring his magic to him might leave Graves in Grindelwald's debt. In any case, Percival Graves’s fear would serve Grindelwald.

It bothered him, still, that Scamander had not been properly afraid. Not for himself. Even after Grindelwald had sent bolts of raw current coursing through his body, Scamander had stumbled to his feet to protect the creature… The boy. Credence. Gellert had seen such desperation in mothers protecting their young, but for a stranger to care for a dangerous beast? Perhaps Albus was capable of such a thing, just to irritate Gellert, but to sincerely persevere through a vicious whipping, all to aid a volatile parasite? There was no understanding Scamander. And this made him unpredictable, too. Grindelwald did not like contingency in his long-term plans.

Grindelwald stroked his wand with a fingertip, a frown of distaste playing upon his features.  



	2. the Reading

Brown paper lined the storefront window of Kit & Willie Co. Books along the Rue de la Parcheminerie. A non-magical person looking in would see a closed-down Boulangerie where Paris’s oldest wizarding bookshop bustled on, unseen. The paper was enchanted to transparency exclusively for wizards, and beyond it was a grand display of books—piles of them, with 1) newest 2) bestsellers 3) staff selections, and 4) special offers propped up near the front.

In late fall of 1927, all four of the selections were the same book: the first edition of an unknown author’s debut that had swept across the continent after being translated from English. Newt Scamander glanced up into the window to see a black-and-white photograph of his own face give him an uncomfortable, darting look. Four copies of _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ by Newt Scamander were propped up in the window of Kit  & Willie Co. Books next to the enlarged photograph of the author himself. The first editions were bound handsomely in brown leather, and the stacks were shrinking quickly. 

Beauxbatons had announced an unprecedented elective _Magical Creatures_ course, with Scamander’s _Beasts_ serving as a main textbook. Across the channel, Dumbledore and Kettleburn had each put in a good word with Dippet, and Hogwarts had awarded the suddenly-renowned Mr. Scamander his (now honorary) degree, making him an official alumnus. Dumbledore had owled Newt that week, offering to craft a preface for the next edition he was sure Newt was working on, if Newt would come visit him for a word, please? They had much to discuss.

But Newt had politely begged off, accepting and putting off the offer of his old Transfiguration professor’s endorsement. He had left his case in the capable care of his new assistant back in his flat in Muggle London, on a stopover from his work in the north of Finland.

Theseus had been called away to investigate Grindelwald's escape during his transfer to Azkaban from MACUSA custody. The Auror had been living in his office and at Emilia Longbottom’s flat in Diagon Alley almost exclusively for the past six months as political tensions mounted, dissipated and mounted again. Theseus had promised to check on Newt's assistant once a day, and to Floo over with supplies as needed.

The proximity to his own semi-sentient picture, which he had been staring through, seemed to make Newt suddenly uncomfortable. He squared his shoulders, dusted the left lapel of his blue coat with his right hand, and turned into the staircase to the basement entry way. From the sunny street where the wind toyed with yellow leaves in the gutter, Newt descended into Kit & Willie Books.

“Just the reading now, Pickett,” he whispered into his lapel pocket, where another wizard might have worn a carnation but which, in Newt’s case, housed a Bowtruckle with attachment issues. “You aren’t still seasick?”

The Bowtruckle peeked out between the folds of his coat, but remained in the lapel pocket. Unlike Theseus, who had Ministerial clearance for international Floo calls, Newt had to travel the Muggle way. He enjoyed the salt wind on his face, the choppy waves, the gathering clouds. Pickett had not enjoyed the short ferry ride. Horace, his Niffler, had nearly caused several scenes, and Newt was forced to cast a Sticking Charm to glue Horace’s backside to the inside of his pocket. The troublemaker had hitchhiked to Paris instead of remaining in the case.

Newt walked on, beyond the window-display of his own books, past the Christmas tree decked with origami ornaments in the shape of hummingbirds and Billywigs, and fluttering paper confetti-snow. He shouldered past a blonde witch speaking rapid French into a diary which noted down her words, and an old woman in a Beauxbatons scarf who was scanning shelves with desperate eyes. Into the labyrinthine bookshelves, where he withdrew his ash wand and tapped an old and worn edition of Nicolas Flamel’s _The Alchemy of Abraham_. The bookshelf in front of him shivered, and the books wriggled in their tight spaces and withdrew in layers, until they formed a staircase that led up through a gap in the low wood ceiling and out of sight.

Newt trod gingerly up the enchanted book-stairs. His steps were muffled by a layer of cushioning charms protecting the books. The establishment prized their collection, after all. Kit & Willie Co. Books would permit only the illusion of trotting on their wares.

The reading space was full, and much more crowded than Newt expected. Wizards and witches chattered excitedly, sitting in rows of chairs, standing at the back and sides of the room. Many were holding copies of Newt’s book. The narrow windows let in the late afternoon sunlight, and the bookshelves lining the walls were obscured by black velvet curtains. Newt had not visited the reading space since he had heard his Transfiguration Professor give a speech on the uses of dragon’s blood, almost a decade ago. The room was very warm due to the crowd, and Newt tried to blend in, slouching to hide his height. But too late—

“Mr. Scamander!” said a friendly voice. Newt winced as the crowd rounded on him, bodies pressing forward in the small space, chatter picking up in volume.

“Quiet! Do make room,” said another, more authoritative voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, please take a seat and for Morgana's sake, give each other room to breathe. This is not a theater; we are a reputable establishment!”

The admonishment was effective, perhaps due to the stature of the witch who delivered it. Taller than Newt, she towered over most of the customers and her black hair, dark eyes, and serious expression succeeded in bringing the crowd to heel. She was curvy despite her height, and the rich burgundy color of her robes complimented her dark skin. Newt licked his lips. There were quite a lot of people.

“I’m Wilhelmina Chasepierre,” said the tall witch. “Willie is fine. Thank you for coming out. I think Kit underestimated your popularity. There is an exotic appeal, you must understand... Ah, you've met Kit? No? There she is,” Willie pointed out an elderly woman chatting in the corner with a couple of ancient, bearded wizards. 

“I’m afraid I can’t introduce you properly now, but you’ll get your speaking fee from her. I have to run after I present you so I’ll miss the reading. But I’m sure it will go smoothly. You are willing to sign a few books afterward?”  
  
Newt nodded along, and blushed when Willie presented him. He shrugged out of his coat, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and scanned his introductory text. When he raised his eyes, Newt's gaze was steady and his voice was firmer than before.

* * * 

Hours later, Newt felt his hand might fall off from signing autographs. The crowd had thinned. Kit had congratulated him on his reading and bid him to visit her after the signing.

“Find me upstairs after you appease your fans,” Kit had said, gesturing at a curtained bookshelf no different from the others in the room. “Password is _Gulliver_ ,” she said into his ear, and swept off. Newt sat atop the desk he had given his reading in front of, pacing, and signed his book repeatedly. He had been pleasantly surprised to see Professor Kettleburn, and wrote him a long inscription full of grateful praise. Other fans of his book perceived all creatures as pets, or nursed unhealthy interests in rare poisons, and Newt did his best to correct misconceptions regarding the “taming” of beasts.

“Merci, thank you, truly a fascinating reading,” said the young blonde witch from earlier. Her speech had a faint French accent and a charming hint of a lisp. The charm was lost on Newt, who was gazing at the long line behind her, daunted. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you in person, Mr. Scamander. You are almost as elusive as the creatures you document.”

The blonde witch might have been part-Veela, he thought, if not for the exaggerated air of lightness. A Veela’s charm was effortless, and this young lady was trying very, very hard for a similar effect. The intensity of her blue eyes startled Newt. The witch disappeared into the crowd without a signed book, and an old wizard wanted his copy signed, please, and Newt lost himself in the repetition of the exercise again.

At last, the line seemed to be dwindling.

“Should I make it out to someone?” said Newt, taking the book without looking up. He did not feel he could take the social interaction with strangers much longer.

“How about your second-favorite baker?” said a familiar voice. Newt looked up and was enveloped by the familiar scent and feel of Queenie Goldstein, who embraced him tightly.

“Oh, darling, I missed you too!” said Queenie, pulling back and beaming. “We slipped in just after you started. You were just great. Tina couldn’t make it out, but she asked me to give you this,” she handed Newt a small, slim box that said _Voges Elite Quills_ on it. “It’s a self-writing one, for when you can’t tear yourself away from your critters.”

Newt’s gaze slid from Queenie to the two men standing next to her. Jacob and Percival Graves looked chummy. Newt rubbed his eyes, absently smearing ink across his cheek.

“Good to see you, Newt!” Jacob said, shaking Newt’s ink-stained hand.

“Have you met Jacob, Newt?” said Queenie, her eyes strained.

“No need to fret on my account,” said Percival Graves. He looked pale and thin, and there was more grey in his hair than Grindelwald’s impersonation had had. There was something haunted and haunting both about his hollow, dark eyes. As though a magical drain, an absence of some vital energy, was stalking him. Newt had seen the same effect in prisoners exposed to Dementors. He opened his mouth to say so, but Queenie spoke first.

“Percival’s been kind enough to take a few hours off work and humor us. I didn't want to miss your reading!” Queenie said, patting Newt’s hand. Newt opened his mouth, but Queenie beat him to it again. “Oh, it’s only unpleasant memories that are gone, dear. We figured that out once Jacob recognized me at his shop. The nomajes all forgot, except for Jacob. Despite all the unpleasantness involved, Jacob’s memories of that time were surprisingly happy."

“That’s because I was in good company,” said Jacob. Newt noticed that the two were holding hands.

“Ooh, Newt! That’s sweet. We’ve been seeing each other since. Mr. Graves does his best to overlook the matter, don’t you, Mr. Graves?”

“It would be easier if you did not flaunt it before my nose,” said Graves dryly. “But do let Mr. Scamander get a word in, Goldstein.”

Queenie blushed and smiled winningly at Newt.

“It’s great to see you both,” Newt said, and added, “And it's good to meet you, Mr. Graves. I would have brought along my letter for Tina if I knew you were coming, Queenie…”

“It seems thanks are in order, Mr. Scamander,” said Graves stiffly, and, to Newt’s surprise, handed over a dog-eared copy of _Fantastic Beasts_. Newt grinned and began inscribing it. When he was finished, he recalled what Graves had said and look back up.

“Thanks for what?” said Newt, but he did not see Graves’s expression change to one of surprise, he did not see the inkwell he tipped to the floor, or Jacob’s confusion, or Queenie’s face falling.

Newt had eyes only for the woman across the room, standing alone and gazing at him with a wistful expression.

“Oh, Newt,” said Queenie softly, but Newt had muttered an excuse and set off across the room.

“Not one for social niceties, is he?” said Graves, narrowing his eyes.

“You haven’t seen the half of it,” Jacob said, handing the signed book back to Graves.

Graves took one look at it and huffed out an indignant laugh. The inscription read, _To the Genuine Percival Graves—I hope my work aids you in reworking those dreadfully arcane laws of yours. N.A.F.S._

* * *

Across the room, Leta wore fur-trimmed sable robes and an uncharacteristically hesitant expression. She stood in a far corner of the room, right next to a black-curtained bookshelf, and her rich robes blended neatly into the fabric. It was the prickling feeling of her gaze which had alerted Newt to her camuoflaged presence. Newt, who was well-versed in feeling eyes and intentions from fieldwork, felt a sharp interest and a strange sadness emanating from Leta. Years ago, he imagined that he had looked at her much the same way.

“I thought maybe you could sign my copy?” she said, with a self-conscious smile. 

“Leta. I didn’t know you were in Paris,” said Newt. He licked his dry lips. Tina’s gifted quill was boxed in his left hand, but it did not feel right to inaugurate his gift from Tina with a message for Leta. 

“I was just passing by when I saw your name and photograph on the window. They were kind of hard to miss,” Leta said. Her head still tilted slightly up and to the side when she spoke, exposing a long neck, an elegant necklace of emeralds and silver pearls, and a sliver of dusky skin. Newt looked down at his feet.

“I thought you did not care to speak with me,” he said.

“Why would you think that?” said Leta, her tone a mixture of sincerity and self-conscious irony.

“The unanswered letters, for one,” said Newt. “You never replied. For years. And now it’s been… twelve, no…fourteen years?”

It was Leta’s turn to bite her lip and study her shoes. She sighed and seemed to come to some decision.

“Newt, let’s let bygone be bygones for tonight. Would you join me for tea? I wanted to discuss an important matter with you. I’ve been speaking with Professor Dumbledore, and,” Leta paused. “Would you please come to tea?”

Newt frowned, but nodded jerkily. He didn’t look at her when he said, “I need to meet Kit Marlough first.”

“I’ll wait for you across the street,” she said, smiling, and she stepped up on her toes to give Newt a peck on the cheek. Or she tried to – Newt leaned back immediately, avoiding the contact. Astonishment rounded his eyes and mouth. A flush enveloped the freckles on his face.

“I need to meet with Kit Marlough,” he repeated hoarsely and wheeled around, walking past Queenie, Jacob, and Graves, who shot Newt a curious look.

Leta stared after him, her mouth set in a thin line.


	3. Tea at Rue Parcheminerie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Believe it or not, I've been working on this fic since November (just after seeing the film in theaters), and this was one of the first scenes I had written. It's undergone many revisions since! 
> 
> As mentioned in the tags, there are some OFC bookshop owners who feature prominently. Willie & Kit Books Co is named after the famous Shakespeare & Company bookshop in Paris. I like to imagine it's Newt's favorite bookshop across the channel. I picture Kit as a female Marlowe, a counterpart to the male version in Jim Jarmusch's _Only Lovers Left Alive_ (2013)... I really do enjoy some genderbent literary classics. I should mention that the OFCs will probably not be major characters in any other chapters despite their prominence in this one. Incidentally, the **noncon drug use warning** is for this chapter -- sorta kinda.
> 
> retcon: fixed Headmaster Dippet to be Headmaster Black (Phineas Nigellus) during Newt's time at Hogwarts.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has left kudos, to the one commenter (shout out to Drownedinlight! Thank you!), and anyone lurking and reading out there! I hope you enjoy the ride. The dark wizard poetry reading is coming soon, as promised in the summary--in ch5. Next chapter preview: Queenie, Leta, & Knights on brooms.
> 
> As ever, mistakes are my own.

**Chapter 3: Tea at Rue Parcheminerie**

Newt said, “ _Gulliver_ ,” and ascended a spiraling wooden stair which creaked beneath his feet. He emerged in a mansard space; the sloping window cast rays of the evening sun in slanting orange along the wainscoted private library. There was a glass tank with five blue salamanders in the glowing fireplace. Newt found his gaze drawn to them before he noticed the other occupant of the room.

He now encountered Kit in her element. An elderly woman, Kit Marlough Jr. sat in a high stool at a lectern and passed her wand along an illuminated manuscript without lifting her wrinkled face from where it was perched on her bony fist. Candles hung suspended in the air about her, reflecting off her silvery hair, in its neat bun, and her large spectacles. She wore gentlemen’s attire that had been out of fashion for at least a century beneath a pair of brocade robes worn grey with age.

 After a minute, she looked up from her work. A pair of lucid grey eyes squinted from within a web of wrinkles.

“Mr. Scamander,” she said, “I am very pleased to see you made it.”

Newt blinked at her choice of words and said, “Good to meet you, Doctor Marlough.”

“Please call me Kit. I’ve truly enjoyed reading of your travels, and I feel as though you have taken me along with you, especially at your reading. You’re not a bad reader, I must say. Articulate. And oh, those Quintapeds! I would have liked to see those…”

Kit could have chosen a tamer creature, but Newt rather liked unusual favorites.

“Why don’t you sit down, Mr. Scamander. Let me offer you some coffee. Pepin!”

She waved her wand and the worn leather couch behind Newt slid forward, making him stumble. A house elf appeared with a _pop_ , a young and well-groomed creature wearing a repurposed curtain-dress in red paisley. 

“How do you take it? Have you been sleeping well lately? My hospitality and my beverages should not be taken if you’ve had insomnia,” said Kit Marlough, sliding from her stool and into an armchair opposite her guest.

“Could I trouble you for tea, rather, Pepin?” said Newt. He felt frazzled from his encounters downstairs, and tea was generally the thing for difficulties and surprises. 

“No trouble at all, Monsieur!” said the elf in accented English. Newt gazed after her with interest as she snapped her fingers and a silver tray appeared atop a tea table. Kit added a pinch of sugar to her black espresso and idly brushed her fingers above the rim of the small cup to guide the spoon.

“Thank you for coming out to read, Mr. Scamander,” said Kit. “I understand there have been many demands on your time of late.”

“It’s an honor to be invited to speak here,” said Newt, bringing a hand over his lapel in a habitual gesture.

“Yes, it is,” said Kit amiably, and gulped down her coffee. She looked hard at Newt, nodded, and said, “That’s enough small talk, Scamander. Tell me, has Albus Dumbledore been hounding you about the events of winter last?”  
  
Newt blinked.  
  
“I ask because the capture and escape of Gellert Grindelwald in New York stirred up a political storm. Your Minister may be playing blind, but there’s been unrest on the continent and it has spread like…how to put it? Like Dragonpox, to those who know the early symptoms.”

“Oh?” said Newt, and added innocently, “How does this pertain to Professor Dumbledore, then? He is working on curing Dragonpox.”

“You are aware that Albus and that German rotter share a history, are you not?” said Kit, with some impatience.  
  
“Professor Dumbledore has mentioned they were acquainted,” Newt admitted. “His brother was, if anything, less forthcoming,” he added slowly. “Were they once… uh, were they once friends?”

The last word tasted sour on his tongue. Newt rather liked Professor Dumbledore, the only teacher to stand up for him when Headmaster Black had wanted his wand snapped, and a brilliant instructor who had brought Newt’s Transfiguration up to snuff. He had tutored Newt and gifted him books, and time, and had even maintained a helpful correspondence.

What did it say of Dumbledore’s esteem, and of those who, like Newt and perhaps Grindelwald, were held in this esteem, if Dumbledore’s judgment could be so wrong? Newt wanted nothing in common with the dark wizard, even as he still found himself craving the esteem of his old mentor. He had not completely broken the habit of trying to please people, it seemed… this boded ill for his upcoming rendezvous.

Newt realized he had been holding Kit’s gaze, and that Kit was waiting patiently as his thoughts wandered.

“Albus is always hesitating, always delegating, always keen to let others in on secrets that do not belong to him. Yet he will guard his own secrets like Felix Felicis,” Kit said. A keen perception lit her grey gaze. “You mustn’t feel obligated to Hogwarts just because they realized their mistake and gave you that honorary degree. Too little, too late, Scamander, that’s what I would say. Beauxbatons were this close to offering you a job this year, did you know? As far as Ilvermorny, experts are singing you praises. A bestiary is an extremely useful book to have, and yours is a satisfactory start.”

“No, no,” said Newt, bringing up a hand as if to ward off the compliments. “Uh, Professor Dumbledore could never bother me. I just have not had a moment, truly, to visit him and express my thanks.”

Kit snorted.  
  
“As you wish, Scamander. I’m glad you came here to give a reading. Your French was very good, too. Thought you’d stop by WICA on the way out, did you?”  
  
“Sorry? Stop by where?” said Newt. Kit had tagged along her last statement too casually.

“Oh, don’t let’s be coy,” Kit said, raising her eyebrows.

Newt took another sip of tea to stall. This was turning out to be more difficult than he had anticipated. Nights spent awake with his beasts, and with his assistant, whose nightmares sometimes caused setbacks in his control, left Newt scrambling to focus on the significance of Kit’s words and pointed glances.

“I had hoped to catch the tail end of the Wizarding Inter-Continental Alliance,” Newt admitted softly, surveying the steaming contents of his teacup. There was a whiff of lavender and something that niggled Newt as a familiar flavor. “I assume that’s why you held the reading so early in the day. But,” he interrupted himself, “you cannot believe my old professor is in league with Grindelwald?”

“Sharp, but missing the point,” said Kit, sighing. “And what does it mean, to be in league with someone? Really? If Albus had stopped him earlier…but he did not. So perhaps in the most distant sense, you could claim Albus is complicit. But of course no one would,” she shrugged. “Not the great alchemist and the noble teacher. But mark this: if anyone can stop that German schemer _now_ , with all this momentum, it ought to be Albus. It would have been better to catch him earlier, however, before the madness had caught and spread.”

“You called it Dragonpox,” Newt said. “The ideology among Grindelwald’s fanatics, the perceived superiority over Muggles, the will to dominate…” 

Newt paused, “I would blame Grindelwald, not Dumbledore, for that.”

“And perhaps you would be right, Scamander,” said Kit, smiling suddenly. It was a small expression, but it transformed her face and, for an instant, Newt glimpsed a decades-younger Kit, one with fewer cares etched into her skin. It faded almost at once, leaving Kit looking grim and aged.

“Yet you would also be right to be suspicious of the plots of old plotters, Scamander. Those two will collide again, all my resources are pointing to it. Did you know that Grindelwald is a Seer?”

“What? No,” Newt looked up, eyes wide, breath stilled. Pickett peered out of his pocket, but Newt did not notice.

“A closely guarded secret,” Kit whispered conspiratorially. “An inconvenient one, and I imagine one Albus forgot to mention? Now, a true Seer is not omniscient, Scamander,” she added, seeing Newt’s reaction. “He has glimpses of the future, of the axes and vertices of time in its least flexible state… but I will not delve into esoteric branches of Divination. That’s Willie’s specialty, anyway, and she’d say I’m talking nonsense,” Kit shrugged. “Suffice it to say, he has been and will be seeking news of his enemy.”

“What’s all this got to do with me?” said Newt faintly. “I wanted to meet a friend at WICA, if you must know. I’ve found out now that they will not be coming. I am not, like my brother, hunting Grindelwald. I want nothing to do with him. I have nothing he wants.”

“Do not be naïve, Scamander. It doesn’t suit you and it could get you killed. Your feelings on the matter are likely not reciprocated, anyway,” said Kit. “There have been sightings and rumors around Munich just this past week, as you must have heard,” Kit said, changing tack again. Newt felt dizzy from the conversation. He took another sip of tea. Pepin must have refilled his cup, because the ratio of cream was off.

“I have not, actually. I’ve been traveling and away from newspapers. I’d only heard of his escape secondhand, and rather after the fact.”

“That is criminally negligent of your safety, Scamander,” said Kit suddenly. Newt cracked a smile.

“That’s what my brother said,” said Newt. “Would you please excuse me? I think I need some fresh air,” Newt started to rise, but his legs would not support him. He blinked the lights from his eyes, the room tilting and righting and tilting on its own.

“Are you well, Scamander?” said Kit. And then, “Have you not been sleeping? I did warn you, young man.”

Newt tried to slur a question, but his mouth would not quite obey. He blinked. Pickett was squeaking, but Kit did not rise or look particularly alarmed.

“I suppose this is partly my fault,” she said. “Do not fear. It is merely a potent Calming Draught. I wanted our conversation to be rational. I did ask if you had been sleeping, you know, so it is partially on you. Well. Well. I’m going to work with Aquinas for a bit, I suppose. I hope you wake up soon, or you’ll miss WICA altogether, young man. Really, people these days have no respect for proper bedtimes…”

Next he knew, Newt was horizontal on the couch, Kit’s back to him as she leaned over her manuscript. He caught a glimpse of a frowning Willie, and drifted into a series of strange dreams, interrupted by the conversation between the two women, who did not bother to lower their voices.

* * *

Wilhelmina had stomped up the stairway, but the cushioning charms absorbed the impact of her heeled boots. Her dark curls bounced with each step, and her warm, dark eyes flashed in indignation.

“Why on earth have you drugged this man and secured him to our couch?” she said, without preamble. Kit did not turn around. “This is not how we treat best-selling authors, Kit. Why does this keep happening?”

“I thought we should have a calm, rational discussion,” said Kit, shrugging her thin shoulders from where she was hunched over the text. Her grey robes fluttered with movement over the tall stool she was perched on. “Young men’s reactions are unpredictable. Calming draughts do not normally have such a strong effect—must be chronic sleep deprivation from editing his second edition. Very common in us, perfectionists.”

Willie snorted.

“What do the irregulars say?” said Kit. “Any news?”

“Nothing good,” said Wilhelmina, and began to recite as though from a memorized list: “Fawley continues to understate the threat in Britain. Picquery sent a delegation of Aurors headed by their newly reinstated Director, aided by someone named Goldstein, and an emergency session of the Wizarding Inter-Continental Alliance is still on for meeting at midnight tonight at the Garnier. There have been _reported_ sightings as recently as yesterday, as near as Calais—but nothing definite. Demonstrators are organizing in support of him, Kit. Girande is expecting trouble from the French faction of the Knights. And he sent word to us,” Willie took a folded note from her robe pocket and gave it to Kit.

“Easy for Fawley, his major cities aren’t crawling with werewolves every month,” muttered Kit. “Girande wants us at WICA, hmm? Didn’t want our opinion on the werewolves and his scheduling issues. Now he’s changing his tune.”

“Reported sightings,” Willie corrected her. “Why have you bound him in place with cushioning charms? Do you expect nightmares?”

“Don’t want him hurting himself or his little sapling,” said Kit, casting a fond look at Newt and Pickett, who had curled up on his Adam’s apple and moved with every breath the wizard took.

Willie gave Kit a skeptical look and waved a cherry wand, undoing the charms and laying a row of pillows beneath the couch.

“There. None of your strange kinks and all the cushioning he’ll need.”

“You wound me,” said Kit without looking up from her manuscript. “I am surrounded by the follies of youth, Willie. Would you considering Gazing for our young Scamander here? I fear he has no concern for his safety at all, despite my most dramatic and dire warnings.”

“Kit, seriously. Have you not read his book?” Willie deadpanned.

 


	4. Knights at the Opera

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Happy weekend! Here's another chapter, wherein we get BAMF Queenie. I think she's a bamf in the film, too, but it's a bit subtle and I wanted to bring it out. And all these sibling relationships, oy. Do you have siblings? I have two older ones, and it's pretty great. Most of the time ;)
> 
> Next up: Newt oversleeps, and there's poetry... And afterward: a battle. This opposes the classical order, but I reckon that's ok.
> 
> as ever, mistakes are mine. & please don't be shy -- leave feedback if you liked/disliked anything! I'm usually happy to chat! It's a pretty awesome fandom, if I might recommend it to itself <3 
> 
> (also, chapter length will get longer as we progress! thanks for your patience!)

**Chapter 4: Knights at the Opera**  
  


Queenie had never expected, last year, to be promoted to advisor to the Director of Magical Law Enforcement. Nor had she expected to fall in love with a nomaj as amazing as Jacob; nor that the formidable Director Graves would be so willing to tolerate her less-than-legal relationship with said nomaj on what was technically a business trip. Yet as she and Jacob critiqued the pastries (there were few left by this hour), she furtively watched Graves sipping coffee and relaxing across from them, and thought that the year was going rather well. And despite Grindelwald’s escape, which had redoubled the strain of resuming his duties, Percival Graves was doing well. Queenie still occasionally felt spikes of distress or negative emotions from him, but these were muted compared to episodes during the last few months. His face was still tired, but it had lost some of the grey, gaunt shadows he had had when he had been rescued. He was dissatisfied with the slow rate of regaining his magic, but that was to be expected. She gave him a warm smile when Percival looked up at her.

“I appreciate all you’ve done for me,” Graves said suddenly, as if reading Queenie’s thoughts. This was a new experience for the Legilimens, and Percival laughed at her expression.

“I have been meaning to tell you,” he said. “I do feel much…safer with you and your talents. Your sister is a fine Auror. But when it comes to subtle diplomacy, your skill set is particularly valuable. I appreciate your willingness to consult for us.”

Queenie knew Percival’s thanks extended to the comfort she had given him back when Tina had located Graves and rescued him from Grindelwald’s prison. Percival’s magic had been all but drained, and he had not trusted anyone near him at first. Queenie, who could read the pain coming off of him, had been a welcome balm to the injured wizard. He did not need to speak to convey his wishes to her, and after a while, Queenie began to vet everyone around him. Graves asked her to confirm his employees’ loyalty, and Queenie had obliged. It was a misuse of her power, perhaps, but she would comfort Graves and keep him safe. She did not wish to see him terrified and hurt again, and if that meant going against her usual ethical standard, well…Queenie knew how to make an omelet. She cared enough about others to sacrifice her principles when she felt necessary.

She had discussed this with Jacob but not Tina, who she felt was more law-abiding and might be difficult to convince. But Tina guessed her sister’s position easily enough, and had even encouraged her to sign on as an official consultant—at first. Tina had been less than pleased to find out that Graves had requested Queenie’s presence over her own at WICA, however. The sisters had nearly had a spectacular row the evening after Graves had made his wishes known.

“You know how dangerous a gathering of Heads of State can be, especially over in Paris, especially now!” Tina had said heatedly as Queenie made careful incisions into the raw crust of an apple pie. “It’s bad enough Newt’s going to be nearby. He’s the worst trouble magnet I’ve ever met. But you, too? What if you get caught in the crossfire, Queenie? I don’t mean political but literal spellfire! Duels do break out at these conferences sometimes. And the risk of Grindelwald’s followers causing mayhem, or blowing the place up? I just have a bad feeling about this trip, Queenie…”

“Take a breath, Teenie,” the younger sister had said, arranging a floret of apple slices atop her creation. She stood back from the pie and considered Tina seriously. “I’ll have Jacob with me, and Mr. Graves. And this is exactly why Graves wants you here, so that someone with a head on her shoulders can keep MACUSA going, no matter what happens.” She paused, and added, “Don’tcha worry about Newt, he can take care of himself plenty good. And I’ll be fine, too!” Queenie tilted her head and gave a smile that looked remarkably doll-like. “I’m just a plain old secretary, I ain’t no threat to anybody. First sign of trouble, I duck and run, like you trained me.”

Tina heaved a sigh. “I had years of training. You’re going out into a potentially dangerous situation with, what? Weeks of training?”

“I had a good teacher,” Queenie pointed out, rising to open the oven. Tina’s hand rose automatically to catch her sister’s sleeve, and then they were hugging, and Queenie’s apple pie was forgotten for a time.

Sitting in the boulangerie with Jacob and Graves, Queenie thought fondly on Tina’s worries. She felt rather guilty for taking Tina’s place in visiting Newt, but otherwise the trip had been smooth and more restful than she had imagined possible. She had never been to Paris before, and Jacob was showing her the city while Percival lingered in the background, a tired but amused shadow of his former self. And now he was thanking her, in public! She couldn’t ask him who he was and what he had done to the real Percival Graves, though the sentiment shone mischievous in her eyes when she said,

“You’re very welcome, Mr. Graves. Have you tried the croissant au chocolat?”

Percival took the proffered pastry and looked up as the bell on the door tinkled. He recognized the woman from the bookshop who had captured Scamander’s attention. Queenie tensed, and Percival automatically scanned the boulangerie for exits, potential threats, and makeshift cover. He was surprised when Queenie stood without a word and approached the table where the dark-haired woman was sitting.

“Hello there. I noticed you at Mr. Scamander’s reading,” said Queenie, sliding into a chair opposite the woman. Graves and Jacob remained at their table and stared. “I’m Queenie. Are you a friend of his?”

“Pleasure, I’m Leta Lestrange. I’m actually waiting to meet Newt now, so if you wouldn’t mind?” said Leta. She indicated her desire that Queenie vacate the chair she had taken by not looking up once to acknowledge the other woman.

Queenie’s smile thinned slightly.

“Does throwing your name around usually get you the results you want, Leta?” Queenie asked amiably.

“Excuse me?” said Leta, tilting her head to look at Queenie from beneath long, black eyelashes. “Is there something you want?”

“Just thought we girls could chat, is all,” said Queenie breezily.

“I would prefer not to,” said Leta coolly. “Not really one for idle gossip, and I don’t believe we’ve met. You are American?”

Queenie smiled sweetly at the scathing Leta had infused into _American_.

“That’s right, dear,” Queenie said. “That’s a very pretty cloak you have on. The fur looks so soft. Tell me, do you like ferrets? Maybe Jarveys?”

There was a clang as Leta rose to her feet, the chair falling to the ground behind her.

“He did not…” she said quietly, looking at Queenie with open surprise.

Graves cast a Notice-Me-Not Charm on their table, as the Muggle server was coming to investigate the noise.

“Tell me? No, Newt wouldn’t throw ya under the bus like that. But I have no such compunctions,” Queenie said. Her tone was still sweet, but her eyes were steely. Jacob and Graves were openly staring.

“Whatever you think you know,” Leta began, in a frosty voice.

“Oh, honey, I promise you, I ain’t bluffing,” Queenie pitched her voice low and articulated her words slowly. “You stay away from Newt, and you tell this Dumbledore fellow to ask honestly instead of playing emotional games, you hear!”

“Whenever you’re ready, Percival says he can get us a box,” said Jacob, taking Queenie’s hand in his. The normally serene woman was breathing fast, her face flushed and her eyes flashing. But she calmed visibly at the contact with Jacob.

Leta had, on the contrary, paled, and stood like a deer in headlights. Graves stepped in and lifted her chair, gave Leta a penetrating glance, and held the door for Queenie and Jacob. Holding her back very straight, Queenie walked out into the night. When they had apparated to the outside of the Opera Garnier, Jacob embraced Queenie as she told him about Jarveys and unnecessary sacrifices and stupid, rotten rich girls who took without giving.

“I know she meant well, this time, but that’s only because she thought she owed her former Headmaster for not investigating her further. She doesn’t care about Newt, not the way he deserves, Jacob,” Queenie sniffed. “I wish she would let him alone so he could move on. She’s given him enough trouble already. I know I shouldn’t have said anything, but Newt was really _hurting_ , and she just didn’t care…”

Jacob was slightly lost, but Percival began, in his mind, to piece together the information absent from Newton Artemis Fido Scamander’s file at MACUSA, which listed an expulsion from Hogwarts for endangering student life with a magical creature.

And then his thoughts were interrupted by a scream from inside the Opera House.

“Stay here!” he growled, wand in hand. Queenie moved to follow him, and he shouted, “Get her out of here, Kowalski!”

 He raced up the stairs to the Opera, black coat swishing behind him.

“Like hell,” said Queenie, dragging Jacob after Percival.

“This doesn’t look good,” said Jacob, quietly, following Queenie as he always would.

The inside of the Opera house was in chaos. The mirrored chambers at the entryway reflected the light of gilded chandeliers and of spells – orange Blasting Curses, red Stunners and Disarming spells, blue Jinxes and flashes of white Shielding Charms. Wizards wearing drab black government robes, formalwear, and tags with their names and their government and country pushed past each other, streaming to get out of the building.

Percival side-stepped the panicked diplomats and navigated the fractured mirror chamber and corridors, ascending to the auditorium, where the stage was set for a Ballet Russe performance. There were no dissident Soviet ballerinas in the house, however.

Instead, a smoky sign floated over the orchestra pit, a triangle outside of a circle with a vertical line drawn through it, suspended in the air like a beacon. It was painted in black smoke in the air, and Percival froze when he saw it.

“Graves! Now’s a good time for some old-fashioned American heroics!” shouted a red-haired man in a brown leather jacket. He was dueling a wizard wearing violet robes with a peaked hood, and two holes for eyes. They scrambled over upturned chairs, exchanging vicious curses.

It was one of many such duels; the auditorium was full of black-clad Aurors of various governments, battling the violet-robed, hooded figures. The violet bunch had an upper hand, Percival saw, thanks to the tight formation in which they were attacking. The Aurors, unused to working with their foreign counterparts, were scattered and taking heavy damage. Queenie and Jacob stuck their heads out over the rail of the balcony, watching the chaos below from a box.

“That’s Grindelwald’s sign,” Queenie said to Jacob, indicating the suspended symbol that rotated slowly beneath the chandelier. “It’s a declaration of their loyalty. Those men in the hoods…”

“Are bad news, yes, I can tell,” said Jacob, grimacing.

“That’s right, honey. But we’ve got some real strong Aurors here. Percival’s gonna make quick work of them. I hope,” Queenie added.  
  
“I see the council’s already in full swing,” Graves replied to the ginger, striding across the seats of chairs to reach him, and to get a better view of the room. “Who invited the droll purgers?”

“That’s Knights of Walpurgis, you fool! We have declared our allegiance to the Dark Lord,” came the voice from within the violet hood. The ginger took the moment of distraction to Stun his opponent.

“That’s the ticket, Gravesy,” he said, springing atop a chair next to Percival and clapping him on the shoulder.

“Don’t call me that, Scamander. We need to coordinate our forces here,” said Graves, and Theseus Scamander appraised the auditorium and nodded, his blue-grey eyes darting around the combatants and the boxes, the stage and the ceiling.

“No dropping the chandelier,” said Graves, sternly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kit and Willie, of their eponymous bookshop, dueling back-to-back. 

“Spoilsport,” said Theseus. “Fine, you get the Germans on the left flank, I’ll take the Frenchies and Brits in from the right. Let’s give these lads the wallop they’re asking for! My brother loaned me his Swooping Evil. They won’t know what hit them!”

“His swooping _what_?” said Percival.

Theseus proceeded to put on a demonstration.


	5. Nevermore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The curtain-trick is a reference to Tom Stoppard's Rosencrantz & Guildenstern are Dead, and as there, it marks a scene shift, so to speak. 
> 
> Spoiler warning: it took me a good long while to pick out the poems. Originally Goethe and Donne featured prominently, but none of it felt authentic to the character who's reading. The fixation is not Voldemort's: not with escaping death, but with mastering it. Also important are the character's intentions, of course, and his one line as himself in the film. He is catering to his audience in a particular way. And that's enough out of me!
> 
> Oh, the idea of Pickett thinking of Newt as his tree comes out a wonderful story I read ages ago, _Everybody Loves Newt Scamander_ by Aethelar (https://archiveofourown.org/works/8648809/chapters/19833010). It's amazing and this author is amazing and I highly recommend it, and anything else written by her/him/it/them. Not sure on that pronoun.

**Chapter 5: Nevermore**

Pickett sensed smoke-fire-danger. He scuttled up his tree’s slender branches to a particularly sensitive point (a pearly scar on the left hand ring finger) and began to poke and prod. No response.

The sound of cracking glass was punctuated by a muffled banging. The Niffler was butting his head against the glass enclosure of smoldering blue Salamanders in the fireplace. They were shiny, in their way, bioluminescing with flames inside their bodies and reflecting on their silvery-blue, scaly skin. There was a cast of green and an overall effect of teal flame which resembled the bark of his tree remarkably well, Pickett thought. But these were Dangerous Creatures, smoke and fire was leaching from the broken glass, and his tree was not waking.

The Niffler hit the tank again, and it shattered. Scared or liberated, the Salamanders scattered, charring the floor in their wake. Trails of smoke became trails of flame, and Pickett prodded his tree’s hand with greater force.

Newt awoke and spotted the problem at once. He rose, tripped over the cushions on the floor, and dove to grab Horace, who was chasing a zigzagging Salamander across the tea table. Newt nearly collapsed on top of the Niffler, the tea table, and the tea. Grabbing Horace by the scruff of his neck, Newt unceremoniously shoved him into his coat’s inner pocket. He offered a bleeding hand to Pickett, who hopped on, looking repentant.

“Thanks for waking me,” Newt said, voice breathy. “This place is very flammable. Or is it inflammable? Oh, dear.”

Pickett moved to his usual pocket, and Newt surveyed the fire-trails of the Salamanders, raising his wand and lowering it in a diagonal swish.

“The trick is to give the spell enough force to freeze them without actually harming them, which means keeping their body temperature safely above twelve-hundred degrees, but below fifteen…”

Newt muttered to himself as he performed a complex series of twirls with his wand. The room was heating rapidly, and the strain of the precise magic made drops of sweat stand out on his forehead and upper lip. At last, he brought his wand down and cast his modified Hot-Freezing Charm.

The first layer of the spell sent a wave of carbon dioxide sweeping across the room, momentarily diminishing the flames and the Salamanders. The second layer reinforced the temperature control, and the third briefly immobilized the creatures. Newt grabbed a fallen tea-cozy and used it to toss the Salamanders back into the fireplace, working quickly. He counted four total. Then he reformed the tank around them, and reinforced it subtly with an Incubation Ward. He had always had a knack for Charms.

The room was no longer at risk of fire, but it was thoroughly ransacked by both Salamanders and magizoologist. Newt sighed.

“Kit is going to kill me,” he told Pickett.

“Good show, boy-o,” said the portrait of a young Nicolas Flamel from the top of a bookshelf.

Newt’s eyes were drawn to the windows, beyond which streetlamps glowed. It was dark, and he had slept through his meeting with Leta.

“Crumbs,” Newt said absently, checking the white-gold pocketwatch in his pocket and then replacing it on Kit’s desk, shaking his head. Horace had struck again. “We’re going to miss our opera, too, at this rate. WICA probably started hours ago.”

Newt suddenly froze and tilted his head. Downstairs the floor creaked, as though someone was climbing the stair, just out of sight.

“…Kit?”

No answer.

He had not realized how empty and quiet the bookshop was. Newt crept over to the secret staircase and peered into the dark.

And that was when he heard it: a resonant and yet muffled voice was reciting verse. Someone was whispering into a Sonorus Charm. The person spoke quickly, swallowing syllables and blending the words, but the overall effect was somehow captivating. Newt cocked his head. It was a poem he knew well.

“ _Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore_ …”

The voice continued to recite the poem quickly, almost in sing-song. Newt stepped cautiously down the creaking stairs, holding his wand aloft. He emerged in the pitch-black reading room and peered about.

The dark curtains whispered in a draft, just as the voice remarked, “… _and the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain thrilled me, filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before_ …”

The poorly articulated poem drifted across the darkened room like smoke. Pickett had migrated upward, was pulling on Newt’s hair. A breeze stirred the room, and the curtains fluttered.

“Could be an enchantment to ward off stragglers,” said Newt, but he kept his wand ready.

“… _caught from some unhappy master, whom un-mer-ci-ful disaster followed fast and followed faster_ …” said the voice, gleefully. The curtains stirred again, began to flap without wind, and suddenly Newt was encased in black velvet.

He yelped and fell. Tangled and entirely blinded by the fabric, Newt wrestled with the curtain. Finally, he freed himself and stood panting, looking around the empty room.

He could hear the reader again—the voice had begun to skip words, even stanzas, as if bored: “ _Hmm. ‘Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!_ ’”

“If these are Wards, perhaps completing the poem will deactivate them?” said Newt, and recited: “‘ _Prophet!’ said I, ‘thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore… Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted_ —Kit? Willie? Who’s there?”

But rather than continue the poem or react to Newt’s interjection, the reader mused on the previous thought: “… _there is a Draught of Nepenthe, also called Lethe-water, which requires somewhat unusual ingredients… the feathers of a living raven._ ”

There was a loud, drawn-out rustling of pages from the opposite side of the room. The clearing of a throat, and the voice began again:

“ _My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, or emptied some dull opiate to the drains one minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, but being too happy in thine happiness, —that thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees in some melodious plot of beechen green, and shadows numberless, singest of summer in full-throated ease…”_

Newt decided quickly that he would rather leave than approach the sound, and took the second stair three steps at a time. In the labyrinth of bookshelves of the first floor, dim and empty, Newt heard the voice as loudly as on the second and third floors of the shop. The tone changed with the poem: reading Poe, the voice had been sinister; reading Keats, at turns menacing and imploring; and now, the rhetorician was eloquent and sardonic.

“ _Statutes and laws, inherited like an old sickness, passed on by the dead through endless generations, creeping down from land to land, from town to town! Sense becomes nonsense, good deeds dangerous: Our forebears are our burden. How about that natural law, new-born in each of us? Dear me, one never hears that mentioned now._ ”

Feeling increasingly uneasy, Newt waved his wand to light the candles floating between the shelves. The low light cast shadows dancing across the books, the floor, and the large Christmas tree. He saw no one. Newt conjured and scattered fine yellow sand across the floor from the tip of his wand, to reveal anyone disillusioned by their footprints. Still, nothing.

 _“This living hand,_ " said the voice, _"now warm and capable of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold and in the icy silence of the tomb, so haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights that thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood. So in my veins red life might stream again, and thou be conscience-calm’d—see here it is—I hold it towards you,_ ” said the voice. “ _Confringo!_ ”

Newt had half a moment to determine where the spell was coming from and put up a shield. Unprepared for the sheer power behind the curse, he rolled with the shockwave, his _Protego_ absorbing most of the blast but none of the momentum. Bookshelves tumbled around him; there was the sound of brick crumbling and a rush of air and sand across his face. Newt rolled to a stop on the cobblestones, bruising his elbows, ribs, and knees. He sprang back onto his feet using adrenaline and pure instinct, before he knew which way was up.

Looking about wildly, he saw the owner of the voice step out on the street from a ragged gap in the wall of Kit & Willie Co. Books.


	6. Inscriptions, pt 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter length is going to get longer from here on out, but updates might be a little less frequent. Sad to say. RL is intensifying as it does, but this little self-indulgent passion project is definitely ongoing. Many of the tags feature here. There is no rape, per se, but there will be some noncon contact, a chapter on or so.
> 
> The "lighthearted ringlets" idea is one I borrowed from a story written in another language--probably one of my favorite stories in this fandom, but not exactly accessible for some, due to language barriers. _Newton Scamander's Method_ , by Korue (https://archiveofourown.org/works/9693287). I can't recommend it highly enough, even if it is in Russian.
> 
> Happy reading!

 

 **Chapter 6** : Inscriptions, pt 1

“Did you enjoy my reading, Mr. Scamander?” said Gellert Grindelwald, turning from the smoking wall of the bookshop. Fragments of white parchment fluttered in the night air about them like ash, or snow. The gas streetlamps cast an orange glow across the narrow Parisian street. Rue Parcheminerie looked sinister, and Grindelwald’s pale face was vividly animated.

“I found yours delightful,” he added.

Newt had never had a dark wizard read him poetry before. He was unsure about the etiquette of simply Disapparating. Sphinxes would frown on such behavior. Centaurs would be glad he was gone. Certain darker creatures might follow him, and Newt could possibly entrap them, with enough luck. Would Grindelwald take grave offense, and offer pursuit? Did he require a poem or riddle? Had he gone completely bonkers? Was he after appeasement, literary attention, blood?

“I did not see you in the audience,” said Newt, stalling for time. “I would have signed your book.”

“Nothing would make me happier,” said Grindelwald, reaching into his robes with his left hand.

Newt Apparated—to no success.

Spinning on his heel, Newt’s destination-determination-deliberation hit an Anti-Apparition curse like a brick wall. Newt crumpled to his hands and knees, pain rippling through his legs, his spine, and, alarmingly, through his magic.

A wizard rarely felt the effects of outside magic upon his or her magical core; creatures could hypothetically sense magical cores—Unicorns in particular, but also, surprisingly, House Elves and Erklings. Dementors could drain the magical core and—as some believed—consume a person’s very soul. Most wandwork and simple potioneering used what Newt thought of as peripheral magic. Only complex spell-crafting, or a spell which required one to delve deep into the emotional well of one’s magic – the joy of the Patronus or the hatred of the Unforgiveables – could tap so deeply into a wizard’s magical core.

Newt had met with many less-than-legal curses in his times, be he had never been confronted with such inventive spellwork. His magic felt stifled. Newt shuddered on all fours, fighting back nausea. He was impressed despite himself.

Grindelwald made a soft noise in the back of his throat. Then he finished the motion which had spooked the magizoologist, and withdrew a worn copy of Newt’s book – in English – and a chased silver fountain pen.

“Won’t you oblige a fan of your work?”

“How could I refuse?” said Newt, trying to even out his breathing. Steeling himself, he pushed up onto his knees and rose, with effort. Newt glanced into those cold, mismatched eyes. Grindelwald was shorter than him but broader in the shoulders, drawn and very pale. He looked as if he could use some sleep. Newt had never thought of Grindelwald as quite human, before, but he wondered now if he was ill. His blond hair had grown out from their last encounter, and was curling slightly despite the pomade glinting in it. Newt could see why a dark wizard would avoid lighthearted ringlets. The blond wizard’s gaze was expectant.

Newt took the proffered pen and book, put his wand in his teeth, opened the pen and wrote,

_For Mr. Grindelwald, from the author. May you come to see the lesser good as no less good._

Newt looked up, but Grindelwald had not moved. He was still gazing at him, as if appraising potions ingredients. Newt sighed and handed back the book, taking his wand into his right hand and the pen in his left.

Grindelwald read the inscription and barked out a laugh.

“You begin to sound just like him,” said Grindelwald, raising a strangely piercing, derisive stare at Newt. He looked almost as if he had been insulted. “Keep it,” he said, when Newt held out the pen.

“Like whom?” said Newt, absently pocketing Grindelwald’s pen—separate from any creature.

“How is your friend doing, how is Tina?” said Grindelwald suddenly. Newt started. “Is she in any danger, do you think?”

“Danger from what? What have you done?” said Newt, tensing.

“Her name,” said Grindelwald cryptically. “By the bye, there’s a grand young Austrian painter whose work you would enjoy. Muggle, but he does animals. Not as talented as your sketches, perhaps, but a promising fellow.”

“What? How is Tina in danger from her name?”

Grindelwald ignored the question and posed his own, tone laced with mock-concern: “There were some curious omissions in your book. I wonder, were you grieving for a creature you only just met?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Newt stiffly.

He flexed his wrist, which was tense from the tight grip on his wand.

“Or perhaps there was an older trauma? The useless Obscurus you kept for a pet? A reminder of having murdered a child?” Grindelwald seemed to savor his rhetorical questions. Newt tried not to react.

“You did her a favor, you know,” Grindelwald pressed on. “The Muggles had all but killed her—you only showed her mercy, Newton. A weakness, but one which can be forgiven. You should not have extended it to the Muggles who were to blame,” Grindelwald had started to pace back and forth in front of Newt, and now he pinned him with a strange, calculating look. It felt like he had been upgraded in terms of expense, from beetle’s eyes to fresh dragon blood.

“You are a very attentive reader, considering none of this was in my book,” said Newt.

“Absences and evasions can be the most telling,” said Grindelwald, with a fleeting smile. His pacing was now a semi-circle, now a circle around Newt, who turned his head to keep his sights on the other wizard. “And you are rather elusive, Mr. Scamander. Newton. May I call you Newton? You may call me Gellert, of course.”

Newt licked his lips, which had gone very dry.

“Was there something else you wished to discuss, Grindelwald?” said Newt, dropping the mister.

“Something besides your book?” said Grindelwald. “Yes, indeed, Newton, how perspicacious you are! I do have a request, if you would accept?”

“What request?” said Newt. His pulse was too fast, again, beating in his ears. He knew that he must not show Grindelwald that he was ruffled, let alone terrified. His hands were sweaty, his wand slick in his grip.

“We are not as different as you wish to believe,” Grindelwald said from behind him. Newt turned his head, expecting the wizard to complete his round, but Grindelwald paused just shy of Newt's peripheral vision.

“Really?” said Newt. He resisted the response on the tip of his tongue; he knew Grindelwald would return to the Obscurus, would focus on Newt’s guilt. Newt did not wish to sully her memory further. He had done enough damage.

He turned to find Grindelwald much nearer than he had expected, and he stumbled back, instincts screaming. But Grindelwald merely began to speak. His voice had regained the captivating quality it had during his poetry reading. The words blurred together, and somehow sounded the more intriguing:

“The world is historically torn between the polar forces of order and chaos; you know this, Newton. Wizarding society imposes order, and you seek a corner where chaos can thrive amidst this stifling atmosphere. The order has no place for your impractical reverence of creatures. You travel, and everywhere you go, you see traces of this order’s imposition on the chaos. But you don’t despair. You very presence disrupts this order. Destruction lingers in your wake. Ah, you frown, but you know it is true. You are right to fight this order, in your own small way, Newton. But I tell you, it is a false order, and individual rebellion is insufficient. This order must be fought and destroyed utterly, before we can begin anew, and take on the burden ourselves… the burden of creating an order of and for wizards. Small inroads will not win a battle, let alone a war. You remember the war. You fought in it, yes?”

“I did,” said Newt. Grindelwald’s voice was strangely hypnotic at this proximity, his eyes boring into Newt’s. The magizoologist felt muted vestiges of alarm, but Grindelwald’s voice was soothing, soft on his ears and mind.

“Then you know what I speak of. Endless bloodshed with no decisive victory, no justification, and no resolution. This is the nature of the flawed order we have today, Newton.”

“And you propose to bring about a new order through fire and ash?” said Newt dubiously. He forced himself to disagree, to ignore the temptation of nodding along.

“The phoenix metaphor is apt,” Grindelwald agreed. “An order of the phoenix,” he said, thoughtfully.

Newt’s gaze caught the tip of Grindelwald’s wand, which was glowing a pale lilac. A subtle Complaisance Charm, Newt realized, or some variant of it. His nails bit into the flesh of his palms.

“But I am, like you, a force for chaos,” Grindelwald continued, all beneficence and understanding. “Without destruction, there can be no creation. Without sacrifice, the Greater Good will perish.”

“What do you know of sacrifice?” said Newt, former wary restraint and calm giving way to anger. “Besides convincing others to sacrifice their lives to your insane machinations? You would deal countless casual deaths for an abstraction. If that’s your request, I deny it!”

“History will prove me right,” said Grindelwald, shrugging, “But there are few who can deny me…” he took a step forward, his wand blazing lilac, but suddenly there was a flash of light at his feet.

Grindelwald and Newt shared a bemused look—neither had cast the spell.

“You’ve read too many of those last-century German Romantics,” said the caster.

The diminutive figure of Kit Marlough Jr. was striding their way, her grey robes flowing behind her, her wand glowing with another curse. Newt heard Grindelwald inhale through his teeth and mutter something in German.

“What have you done to our shop?” said Wilhelmina, appearing on Kit’s heels. “Visit during business hours and use the damn door, you philistine.”  
  



	7. Death and his Friends, pt 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Illustrations by the lovely and very talented **[yvonne-tsugu,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yvonne_tsugu/pseuds/yvonne_tsugu)**  whom I commissioned! She is fantastic. 
> 
> Warning -- story is about to get more violent and subsequently darker. As I think is understood with Gigi takes the stage.
> 
> Thank you so much for the kudos and comments! The comments especially make my day, and leave me ridiculously happy and inspired. Please keep those coming, if you would be so kind? <3

**Chapter 7: Death and his Friends, pt 1**

  
“Has he been preaching the teleology of History to you, Scamander?” said Kit. “I’m sorry, that’s a harrowing experience.”

“We came as soon as we realized our Wards were down,” said Willie. “Well, as soon as we were able,” she amended.

“How lovely to see you ladies,” said Grindelwald, waving his wand in a complex pattern.

“Don’t try to Apparate!” Newt shouted—too late. Grindelwald had aimed a hex at Willie, who tried evade it and collapsed under the force of the Anti-Apparition curse and the hex, both.

Grindelwald flicked his wand carelessly at the fallen Willie. Newt brought up a shield to protect her. Unfortunately, this left him open to Grindelwald’s follow-up, another Blasting Curse that sent the magizoologist flying through the shopfront glass of the boulangerie across the road.

Newt rolled across and off a table, through several chairs, and knocked over a display of meringue, which turned out to be plaster. He rose shakily from the floor. Shattered glass rained from his coat and hair. He wiped the side of his head, which felt wet with blood, and his arm, which turned out to be wet with coffee.

Framed by the broken window, Kit and Grindelwald were throwing curses at each other, lighting up the street outside. Other wizards ran into view, and then Newt was horrified to see several Apparate directly into Grindelwald’s Anti-Apparition Wards and collapse, immobilized by the drain on their magic. Grindelwald’s curses became less flashy and more forceful as Aurors began to flood the scene. He was tapping into his wards for magical energy, somehow using the wards like a sink to store stolen magic.

“Your shop,” Grindelwald said, flinging a fiery lasso from the tip of his wand, “needs upkeep. There is no section on phrenology, to say nothing of contemporary philosophy of magic. And your erotica section panders to societal mores something awful.”

“You’ve been banned since you started killing people. No, before even, when you tore out pages and murdered books,” snapped Kit. “Go visit Berlin if you require diversion.”

She brought up a gale-force wind, which redirected Grindelwald’s curse, and levitated the cobblestones to spin around and close in on the other wizard. Teams of French Aurors had gathered in triangle formation to attack Grindelwald, who vanished into the whirling of stones and dust.

Grindelwald transfigured the stones into feathers, which he sent flying back at Kit, sharpened and vitrified into razors. Kit brought up a shield and stood her ground, but the effort seemed to cost her. Her ancient Birchwood wand crackled with strain.

Grindelwald frowned and redirected his attention briefly. A stream of the dark wizard’s curses blasted a crater into the street, sending Aurors flying violently into walls. Newt wondered why Grindelwald had held back, before. Newt’s instincts trilled, and he glanced around—there was no new threat he could see… He looked up. Wizards, flying in battle formation, were swooping in on broomsticks. They were all wearing purple robes with peaked hoods, and the leader was brandishing a sword.

“I was having a diverting conversation until you arrived,” said Grindelwald, pressing his advantage and turning back to Kit, whose shield shattered. She transfigured the feather-darts into dandelions, which landed harmlessly on her face and clothes. Grindelwald snarled, and a thick, yellow fog poured from his wand, enveloping the street.

Newt recognized the common Muggle weapon from the war and cast a Bubble-head Charm on himself. He rushed forward to cast the same onto Willie, who was struggling to her feet. Kit began to cough, and retreated from the duel.

“Reinforcements are coming,” Willie said weakly. “We need to catch Grindelwald now, while he’s out in the open. It’s our best chance!”

Newt nodded, repressing any feelings of bitter irony. He tried laying the foundations for an Anti-Apparition ward of his own, wrangling with the cursed wards already in place. It was impossible, he decided, after another interruption by rogue spellfire from above. The Knights were circling the battle from the air, firing off spells and knocking down Aurors, bystanders, and windows. At this rate, Grindelwald would escape in the chaos of battle. Newt wove a tracker, the kind of unobtrusive jinx he would put on wild creatures to monitor their approximate location, and waited for an opportune moment to let it alight on its target.

Grindelwald was flicking his wand idly to deflect the curses that fresh waves of Aurors were casting. One got through, singeing Grindelwald’s left arm.

“Ah, Percy!” he said suddenly. “Were you so impatient to see me again? I’m flattered.”

“We – are – not – on – first – name – terms,” said Percival, punctuating each word with a spell, so that his fury bled into a barrage of Stunners. Grindelwald deflected them all, but his movements were no longer lazy and relaxed. Newt blew on the tip of his wand, and the Jinx fluttered like a moth, attaching itself to the inside hem of Grindelwald’s black cloak, where it glowed sage green and vanished.

“Come now, Percy, don’t be a stranger,” said Grindelwald, blasting away a fresh wave of Aurors. The Knights were still circling above, shooting down and injuring Aurors. Percival dove into the basement bookshop entrance and disappeared, only to emerge from a second-story window with a Blasting Curse of his own.

Willie was holding up a coughing Kit, who looked every bit her age. The two were casting Muggle-Repelling Charms a ways down the street, and Newt realized that the battle could easily turn into a massacre. Thanks to Kit and Willie, the gathered onlookers were beginning to disperse, Confounded and Charmed away. But the flash and bang of Grindelwald’s spells could, if unchecked, easily attract half of Paris—and this was without the added mayhem of the Knights and Aurors battling in and above the street.

Newt tried to curb the damage, herding the violet-clad Knights toward the Aurors with well-aimed jinxes, dissipating the remaining yellow gas, dodging in and out of individual duels of clusters of Aurors and Knights. It was not enough. He paused in thought, and his eyes found the spires of the Notre Dame.

“ _Of course_ ,” Newt said, and dashed down the street. He elbowed past Confounded Muggles, turned left onto Rue Saint-Jacques, ran past an abandoned park and right into a winding alley which led along ivy-covered buildings and to the river, and there—the gothic Cathedral came into view. He put on a final burst of speed to reach the Seine.

Newt nearly collapsed, panting, on the riverside railing. He took a shaky breath, another, one more, and let out a long, low whistle.

He prayed that they would hear and respond. They were on good terms with him, but they might have changed their haunts since he had last visited, moved on to a cemetery from the Cathedral and its neighboring hospital… or they might be asleep and reluctant to greet an old friend, even one who had rescued a foal.

No response. It was a long shot, Newt thought, disappointed. He would have to think of something else. But then he saw it. There was movement along the flying buttresses. At first, it seemed that a swarm of bats had been disturbed, but then, by the flapping of black, leathery wings, the skeletal horses took to the air and cantered over the roof of the Cathedral, across the Seine, and toward the magizoologist. Three large Thestrals landed softly on the street near him. A particularly lanky, smaller Thestral butted its head against his chest, knocking Newt back several paces.

“Pamela!” Newt laughed, patting her nose. “You’ve got so big. I’m afraid I need your help,” he addressed the other three.

* * *

The screams of the Knights as they were knocked from their brooms were very satisfying. Percival looked up in amazement when he saw Newt, mounted on an enormous Thestral, flanked by two more, blasting Knights out of the sky. Tickling Charms did the trick, too, and some Knights laughed wildly as they fell. Grindelwald looked up as well. He aimed his wand at Newt, and then lowered it, observing the magizoologist and his allies make quick work of the airborne Knights, many of whom could not see the Thestrals.

Newt was enjoying himself for the first time that night. His eyes glittered as his mount wove about the chimneys. Pickett chirped in his hair, and the air blew his fringe out of his face. Newt patted Adam fondly. He brought up shield charms to defend the Thestrals when spells brushed near. His blue coat streamed in the wind, and an overlooked blue Salamander peeked furtively out from beneath his collar.

Grindelwald tore his eyes away. He needed to reverse this turn of the tide. A strongpoint of resistance came from Percival, whose higher ground allowed him to instruct Aurors with better perspective and to fire off spells to distract Grindelwald. The dark wizard brought his eyes to rest on Graves for a calculating moment. Then he collapsed a chimney onto the Auror, and Percival was forced to jump from his perch in the second-floor window. He rolled with his fall, cushioning his landing, and then went sprawling when Grindelwald hit him with a Cruciatus.

Graves screamed. Writhing beneath Grindelwald’s wand, pain and fear warred on his face. Newt, who had been dissipating the yellow fog carefully from the air, flinched at the sound. The smell of the poison gas, the agonized screaming, the flashes of spellfire as he rode through the air all brought him back to his time in the war, and his dragons. The joy of a shared flight evaporated instantly. His skin prickled under a layer of sweat, and his hands buzzed with nervous energy. His Stinging Hex clipped Grindelwald across the chest and shoulders, and the screaming cut off. Newt hopped off of Adam and jogged to where Graves lay shuddering on the ground.

The force of Newt’s hex sent Grindelwald pivoting on his heel. The dark wizard rounded on Newt, eyes narrow and mouth set.

Newt raised his wand to begin a complex shield over Graves, but a wave of Grindelwald’s hand sent Newt to the ground, winded. Over the noise of ongoing duels, Newt heard a Thestral neighing.

“Fly, Adam!” he cried, rising onto his elbows, throwing a look over his shoulder. The Thestrals were circling above the battle. Adam backed off at his command, but refused to retreat further than roof-level.

Graves shouted a warning and threw a curse which seared Newt’s hair and shattered against Grindelwald’s shield. This jarred Newt back into the present—Grindelwald was kneeling inches from his face.

The dark wizard had got down onto one knee and daintily brought his wand hand to Newt’s jaw. Newt flinched at the proximity, and Grindelwald’s left hand darted forward like a snake to wrap around Newt’s throat. The grip tightened incrementally as Grindelwald’s smile widened. Newt gasped when Grindelwald maneuvered him onto his knees and into Graves’s line of fire.

Newt cast nonverbally, but his range of motion was limited and Grindelwald deflected easily, even as he knelt at point-blank range. Newt’s wand fell from his fingers. His hands instinctively clawed at Grindelwald’s knuckles as he struggled for air. Grindelwald’s fingers dug into his Adam’s apple, his carotid artery, the scar from where Theseus had nicked him with a Severing Spell and panicked… 

Grindelwald’s cold eyes were alight with something, but Newt’s vision was beginning to fade. His hands, which had been beating weakly at the chokehold, went slack atop the other wizard's. And he felt a strange jolt of pleasure accompany the dizziness, intense and visceral and strong enough to make his toes curl. Through half-lidded eyes, Newt could see cold, mismatched eyes and curling lips. Grindelwald traced his wand hand along the ink smeared across Newt’s cheek. And then a shock of pain crossed Grindelwald’s face; he jerked his hand back as though burned, and Newt slid sideways and fell, clocking his head on the paving stones.

There was an interlude: a long moment of darkness.

When awareness returned, the first thing Newt saw was Percival Graves leaning over him.

He was on the ground next to the winded, sweaty Graves, and Grindelwald was shouting in French at the Aurors, and Percival was saying something. What was he saying?

“…mander! Newt! _Episkey!_ ”

“What-?” Newt croaked, and immediately regretted it for the stabbing pain in his throat. His head felt stuffed full of cotton, and yet somehow empty, an echo chamber of reverberating aches. Flashes of light were dancing in the corners of his vision: spellfire.

“You’re awake. Breathe. That was… the Thestrals were…” Graves paused, and took his own advice. “Theseus is coming with an elite force. We _have to_ hang on, Scamander.”

He handed Newt his wand, which Newt took without responding. His voice would fail him. Newt looked more closely at Percival. Though the Auror seemed confident, there was a tremor in his hands. Newt reached a hand into his pocket and withdrew a live mouse (it ran away), a few Knuts, a rhinestone-studded scarf, and finally a pouch, which he opened with faltering fingers to take out a handful of powdered leaves.

He offered it to Graves.

“Snuff? Now?” he said, arching a brow. Newt narrowed his eyes and squeezed the herbs in his fist, then licked them from his hand. Graves watched him with a strange expression.

“Mild analgesic, for the short-term,” said Newt in a ragged whisper, tossing Percival the pouch.

“That’s potent,” said Percival, and his face lost some of its strain after he sampled the powder. “What exactly is…?”

“Excuse me,” croaked Newt, hauling himself to his feet. Percival gave him an appraising look, and took the proffered hand.

More violet-robed figures had arrived at Rue Parcheminerie, and Grindelwald was laughing as the Aurors fell back. Queenie and Jacob were helping Kit and Willie keep curious Muggles at bay with redirection and Muggle-Repelling Charms. There were tears streaking down Queenie’s face.

“Ah, Goldstein, I’m afraid your pet has to be put down,” cried Grindelwald, and there was a flash of green, and a French Auror pushed Jacob aside and narrowly missed the curse.

Percival rushed over, then, shoved Queenie down and sent a Stunner at Grindelwald, which the wizard deflected. With a flourish of his wand, Percival felled two streetlamps on Grindelwald, who was forced back. Newt focused a stream of poison gas from his wand, but Grindelwald drew the fallen tongues of orange flame to engulf the gas, which combusted. In the chaos of the ensuing explosion, Newt ran to where Percival was shielding Queenie and Jacob and, beyond them, a streetful of Confounded and confused Parisian Muggles.

“I’ll draw him off,” Percival was saying. The orange flames cast shadows across his face. Graves had sharp cheekbones, Newt noticed, and his dark eyes were bright and wary. Like Theseus, he seemed to come alive in battle.

“Percival, no! Our best chance is to work together,” Queenie protested.

“We can’t risk further exposure to the Nomaj population,” said Percival. “That’s what he’s after. He’s winning just by fighting us here, and he knows it!”

While they were arguing, Newt had withdrawn Horace from his pocket and grabbed a careful fistful of Bowtruckle from his head—Pickett had burrowed into his hair. He handed Horace to Queenie, who took him a bit too gently, and put Pickett onto Jacob’s shoulder. Pickett squeaked in protest. Graves stared at the Bowtruckle and at Newt. 

“Together,” Newt rasped. He gave a wheezing cough, recovered, and grinned crookedly. The pained expression in his eyes was shot through with a gleam of humor.

Percival felt his mouth go dry. He nodded, and brought his ebony wand into a dueling stance. Newt gripped his ash wand loosely in his right hand, leaning back into his own modified stance.

“Your brother is going to kill me,” Percival said out of the side of his mouth. Newt shrugged and shifted his gaze in Grindelwald’s direction, and raised his eyebrows.

“Yes, he would have to get in line,” Percival agreed.

 

 


	8. Inscriptions, pt 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _UPDATE on Nov 9, 2017_  
>  Added an illustration by the loveliest artist, **[yvonne-tsugu,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yvonne_tsugu/pseuds/yvonne_tsugu)**  whom I commissioned a second time, because her art is brilliant and she is amazing.
> 
>  _Previously:_  
>  Thank you all so much, those of you who commented / left kudos / bookmarked. Please keep feeding my soul your kind words of encouragement <3 Life's been super busy which accounts for a bit of a delay, and I am sorry about this.
> 
> I'm retconning a picture into this, once's it is done. Very excited about this.
> 
> Uhm, violence ahead? I mean, more of it, I guess

**Chapter 8: Inscriptions, pt 2**

It was not unlike a match of table tennis.

Grindelwald volleyed curses at them, and Newt deflected while Graves attacked. Occasionally they switched, and Newt hoped Graves would overlook some of the darker spells he was using. They fell into a natural rhythm, working well together despite Grindelwald’s relentless offensive. But the length of the battle was taking its toll; Percival’s wand hand was shaking, and Newt, reduced to casting nonverbally, was still wheezing on every breath. They could not go on indefinitely. Newt had not trained against human adversaries since his army days, and Graves did not trust his magical reserves to hold out.

“Where should we draw him off?” Newt whispered to Graves. They were standing back to back, Newt deflecting while Graves worked on dismantling the Anti-Apparition curse, which was feeding Grindelwald’s magic.

“Wilhelmina and Kit have Floo access on Rue Saint-Jacques,” said Percival. “ _Protego!_ I can’t get at these damn wards from within. If only we had broken them from outside…”

Newt paused in thought, and Percival began an offensive. Adam the Thestral was circling above them, and Newt wondered if there had been enough death that night to warrant such signaling behavior, or if Adam was only anticipating slaughter. His grim thoughts were interrupted by a welcome voice.

“Newt! Graves! Don’t tell me I’m late to the party?”

Theseus had finally arrived, three squadrons of Aurors flanking him. These were the Ministry’s finest, along with the French Magical Parliament’s elite forces. Theseus squinted at Newt and Graves, and then he caught sight of their condition, and of Grindelwald, and his expression changed. 

“Get the hell away from them,” Theseus glowered, aiming a stream of fire at the dark wizard.

Grindelwald, who had commanded his Knights forward to combat Percival’s forces, gave a twirl of his wand, transforming the flames into a whirlwind of fire. Theseus’s orange flames turned yellow, then twisted into whorls of pale blue Fiendfyre. Figures of Basilisks and Acromantulas sprouted in the flames. Newt paused to gaze at them, almost bewitched by the life-like movement. A fiery dragon flickered to life, opening its enormous jaws wide… Percival jerked Newt aside as the street became engulfed in scorching flames. Searching out fuel, the searing fire-beasts went flying, leaping and creeping along the cobblestones to devour paper, fabric, flesh and stone. Grindelwald’s pale face glowed in the blue light as he conducted the flames like a symphony, directing the inferno at his enemies. His face was expressionless in concentration; Aurors fled the scalding heat preceding the fiery animals. Knights had clear access to shoot curses at the backs of the fleeing magical law enforcers. A tongue of flame licked at Theseus’s boot and he fell back, shouting in pain and frustration.

Kit and Willie were working in tandem, muttering in Latin as their wands spouted a thin, semi-opaque film to cover the outside of their shop. This seemed to repel the sparks and tongues of flame which came near it. Theseus conjured up water, which did nothing to slow the flame-beasts. He ordered his Aurors to evacuate the Muggles instead. He was limping.

Grindelwald’s control of the wild curse was astonishing. Theseus and the reinforcements were cut off by a wall of flame which was spiraling in on itself. Graves, Grindelwald and Newt would be trapped in the heart of the blaze. Newt didn’t have time to pause or explain; he put all his weight into shoving Graves toward the end of the street before the fire could cut them off.

Percival reeled as Theseus’s wiry, slim brother propelled him out of the path of the Fiendfyre and beyond its reach, even as infant flame-spiders swelled to enormous Acromantulas and fled the fangs of Basilisks, as Ashwinders wriggled on the street and flame-dragons soared to snap at rooftops, threatening to set buildings aflame.

“No, damn it, Scamander,” Percival snapped, too late. “This isn’t your call!”

“Help Theseus!” Newt rasped, and then there was a wall of fierce blue flames between them, and Newt and Grindelwald disappeared in a ring of Fiendfyre.

* * *

Newt squared his shoulders and squinted. The blue flames danced brightly, cutting off the two wizards from the raging battle. Perhaps Grindelwald had meant the ring to enshroud his escape, or his duel with Graves? Newt had ruined any such plans. There was no more cover, and the Fiendfyre radiated heat onto the two wizards and the cobblestone street. Grindelwald sent another spell his way, and Newt called up a shield at the last moment.

It promptly exploded under the force of a disarming spell. Newt wondered at the relative mildness of the curse sent his way. Grindelwald was not known for holding back. Newt still suffered from arrhythmia, a result of their last meeting in the subway tunnels.

“The Knights of Walpurgis will help me establish the new order,” Grindelwald said. They were circling each other on the uneven ground, sidestepping along the fire-line in a strange dance. The creatures in the flames kept drawing Newt’s gaze, and he struggled not to admire them, not to trip over the upended cobblestones.

Hesitantly, Grindelwald continued: “So why do you fight on the losing side? Graves, the Ministry, they stand for everything you resist, Newton. You will realize this, before the end. I have Seen it, and you _will_ serve me. My Knights would recognize your bloodline and your talent. Your creatures would be welcomed, would thrive in a new wizarding order. And so would you.” 

“Violet’s not really my color,” Newt rasped.

“You should see the necklace I gave you,” Grindelwald retorted. “It does bring out your eyes.”

Newt blinked in bemusement, a blush that had nothing to do with the heat coloring his cheeks. Why was Grindelwald mocking Newt if he wished to recruit him? Was this a humiliation tactic employed to confuse him? Grindelwald raised his wand to return the Stinging Jinx Newt had thrown at him earlier. It glowed pale blue on the tip of his wand. Just then, Newt felt something warm scuttle across the back of his neck. This gave him an idea.

Newt pivoted and took the hit directly across his back as he replicated the Hot-Freezing Charm he had modified earlier that night, working quickly, swishing his wand diagonally. He held his breath to rein in the pain. Then he dropped to the ground with the force of the Hex and rolled, the Fiendfyre scorching heat across his back, his arm, his hair and face… He had looped the inner circumference of the ring of flames—which had momentarily diminished in heat due to the modified Freezing Charm—and he threw his own disarming spell from behind Grindelwald.

Newt’s aim was true; Grindelwald was thrown straight through the Fiendfyre, wand flying into Newt’s hand. Apparently the wizard had not counted on such blatant disregard for one’s wellbeing as rolling directly into Fiendfyre.

Grindelwald’s wand was unusually knobby, made of wood blanched white as bone. It felt strange in Newt’s grasp, pleasantly cool despite the dancing flames and extreme temperature. The blue Salamander on the collar of his coat made a happy crackling noise and threw itself into the Fiendfyre, where it grew to enormous proportions and began to frolic.

Newt stood in the circle of pale blue Fiendfyre, sweaty, charred, bruised and breathing hard in the heat. He felt strange. He held his wand in his right hand and Grindelwald’s in his left. He stared at them, and turned on his heel, and broke through Grindelwald’s Anti-Apparition Wards like rice paper.

 

The observation platform atop the Eiffel Tower had not been his intended destination, but it offered welcome relief of detachment from the heat and flash of battle. Above the lights of the city, the cool air and space felt surreal. There was ash in his hair and soot on his face and coat, but up here the air was clear of smoke. The full moon lit up the empty observation platform.

Newt stumbled against the rail and stared at the white wand. He whistled, long and low, into the Parisian night: a note of summoning. Then he took a breath—it hurt—and put his wand away, and took the cold, white, foreign one into his wand hand.

“ _Finite Incantatum!_ ” Newt said, calling on his magic to work against Grindelwald’s, but with the other wizard’s wand. Newt’s voice rasped worse than before. His throat felt like sandpaper. 

At first he only felt the rush of magic, stronger than he expected, spread through his fingers and the wand from somewhere in his core. He saw the blue glare of flames diminish in the corner of his eye. Were there natural amplification properties in the wood, or core, or was there some enchantment placed on this wand? How could Fiendfyre be quelled so simply? He had undone some powerful spellwork, he felt it unraveling still, its effects traveling further, going deeper. He could almost feel the taint of some dark magic dissipating… Imperius curses? He hoped it was nothing good, did not think the owner of the wand capable of much good. Part of him mourned the Salamander that had likely saved his life.

He felt exhausted, like the wand required more magic even as it amplified what Newt gave it. It was eerily disproportionate, and he did not understand its source. He ran his fingers over it, marveling at how it radiated coldness and magic.

The sound of Apparition startled Newt for the second time that night. There was desperation in Grindelwald’s face, now, that had not been there before. Newt wondered wildly how the wizard had found him. He took a step and hit the barrier behind him. Trapped, Newt forced himself to relax into a loose dueling stance, the sort he used to subdue wild creatures who could hurt him and themselves in a rampage. 

“Well played, Newton,” Grindelwald hissed. His hair was charred and smoking, his cloak flapped in the wind, and a nasty red burn blistered on his exposed forearm. “I was going to send off Graves for interrupting, but now you’ve taken something of mine, and skipped the line, as it were.”

“Here, take it,” Newt said hoarsely, offering Grindelwald the wand. “I have no further need of it. Just don’t hurt anyone else.”

For once, Grindelwald looked surprised. He stepped forward, eyeing Newt with suspicion. He snatched the proffered wand and grasped Newt’s wrist, pulling his arm out, then the other, drawing back layers of sleeves to expose wiry forearms crisscrossed by old scars.

“No wand holster? No tricks?” Grindelwald arched a brow, “Newton, you are too much. I begin to think you are a masochist.”

Newt yanked his arms back, huffing an amused breath. His horror was turning to humor, and he blamed the many knocks on the head. His back was beginning to sting from the previous hex—evidently the adrenaline would soon wear off. He would need lots more “snuff,” as Graves had mistakenly called his willowbark and poppyseed powder concentrate. 

“But,” Grindelwald paused. “Wait… this must be won, not given… No, Newton, I am afraid we are not quite finished with this exchange, you and I. _Expelliarmus!"_

Newt’s wand flew from his pocket and he felt himself falling over the edge of the observation platform, as if in slow motion. He felt the rail glide along his back, the air slide along his coat and face, and then: freefall. He needed to Apparate before he hit the ground, but he could not tell which way was up. There was blood rushing in his ears. He felt foolish for not anticipating and pre-empting Grindelwald’s attack. He had misjudged the dark wizard’s reaction to unpredictability; Dougal would be disappointed.

Newt Apparated blindly and wandlessly, and opened his eyes. He had not splinched, and he was back on the observation platform. Grindelwald was holding both wands as though weighing them. He raised mismatched eyes over equally mismatched wands and tilted his head at Newt’s feat of blind and speedy Apparition.

There was nothing Newt could use in his environment: all was open sky, a nasty fall, and the metal rails and grating below. His pockets contained two quills, a pen and a Puffskein.

“I don’t suppose you would be amenable to talking this through over a cup of tea?” Newt rasped breathlessly, his own eyes still wide with the panic of the sudden fall. His heart was beating in his ears.

Grindelwald gazed at Newt and at the battered wand with raised brows, disdain written on his features. He said, “Another time, perhaps. Now, I admire your tenacity, but I do not take theft lightly. _Crucio_.”

Newt doubled over and hit the ground, biting through his lip and tasting blood. Every part of him save his voice was screaming in agony. It was, impossibly, worse than the Fiendfyre. The moon looked blurry through a shroud of tears, and Grindelwald’s face loomed a pale smudge somewhere above. After what seemed an eternity, Grindelwald lifted the curse and knelt down, watching patiently as Newt wheezed and twitched. He caught his breath, feeling more tenuous than tenacious, coughing and spitting blood from his broken lip.

“Most impressive,” Grindelwald crooned. “Graves is a screamer, and so’s your brother, I hear. But I suppose I’ve ruined your voice, hmm?”

He paused, and Newt tried summoning his wand to his hand. Grindelwald didn’t even blink as he countered Newt’s wandless magic. Newt’s head fell back from the effort as he lay panting. 

“I wonder what it would take to make you scream,” Grindelwald said dreamily.

There were gendarme beacon lights in Newt’s peripheral vision, flashing yellow off of dark windows of the city below.

“The battle was a distraction,” Newt realized, scanning the upside-down horizon with dawning foreboding. “What are you planning?” he whispered, half to himself. He licked his bloodied lips.

“I recall you raising your voice when your creatures were torn from you. Can you not scream for yourself, Newton?” Grindelwald said slyly, eyes shining at Newt’s question. “Just a little? _Crucio!_ ”

This time, Newt consciously tried to keep from screaming. It was more difficult, though it helped that he had utterly lost his voice. There were sparks in his vision and a fine tremor in his muscles when Grindelwald lifted the second wave of the curse. Newt’s skin buzzed with the muscle spasms and accumulated nerve-damage of the Cruciatus. His lips were salty with tears and blood as he gasped for breath, rasping on every inhale, bruised throat sore and painfully dry. He had bitten through his bottom lip twice, and he could taste blood on his tongue again. 

“You insist on disappointing me tonight,” said Grindelwald softly.

He rose to his feet, turned, walked away across the platform. Newt tried to rise, but his muscles felt watery. He succeeded on his third attempt, stumbling dizzily to his feet, leaning on the rail.

Grindelwald turned smoothly back, and said, “You should take better care of your wand, Newton. What is this core? Marine detritus? A real core like Dragon Heartstring would serve you better, don’t you think?”

“A wand is not improved by death,” Newt said hoarsely, holding himself up on the rail and reaching to try another wandless summons. His extended arm trembled with strain, wrist and fingers shaking. Newt’s wand shivered in the dark wizard’s hand, and Grindelwald’s expression changed.

“On the contrary, Newton. Which reminds me… we should commemorate your short-lived possession of one-third of death’s bounty,” Grindelwald said thoughtfully, caressing his wand with his thumb and eyeing Newt coolly.

“Don’t trouble yourself, Gellert,” Newt rasped, spitting to clear his mouth of the taste of blood. 

Grindelwald’s face broke into a smile. “You will oblige me, of course, and show me my canvas? _Imperio!_ ”

Newt’s coat was on the ground, along with his jacket and waistcoat, before he realized that his hands were fumbling with the buttons of his shirt under Grindelwald’s attentive gaze. A wave of humiliation swept across Newt, then. He used the emotion to combat the Imperius’s suggestion of lighthearted ease and carelessness. He felt the heat across his face and back and shoulders, and he grounded himself in intense discomfort. He would not undress for this madman. His fingers went on in their involuntary fiddling on the buttons of his shirt. Angry and mortified, Newt fought the compulsion. He frowned fiercely and his hands paused, trembling at his collar.

“There you are,” Grindelwald said, voice soothing, eyes gently condescending. Instead of using magic, he ran his hands over Newt’s trembling ones, and made quick work of his shirtsleeves. He pulled the shirt from Newt’s shoulders with deliberate care before Newt could shake the _Imperius_ and its hazy suggestiveness from his mind or his reluctant muscles. The curse and perhaps part of Newt wanted to lean into the brush of warm palms against his arms, though it was also against his will. 

And then Grindelwald was staring at his bared torso, at his back and right side, where the skin had been badly burnt and painstakingly healed, where there was a fresh mark from the Stinging Hex. The mismatched eyes took in Newt’s slim, wiry build with strange relish; arms that were lined with bite and claw marks, raised and gouged in his skin, and a chest burnt by the curse-lightning, which had scarred a fresh, vivid red against older injuries. Newt’s long throat and arms bore the marks of the recent battle—darkening bruises stood out on his fair skin. 

Stripped of his wand and his clothes, Newt felt horribly vulnerable. He took a step to attempt to recover his ash wand, but Grindelwald said, “ _Immobilius!_ ” softly, and Newt was forced to stand straight, swaying slightly, pinned to the spot.

Grindelwald circled the magizoologist slowly. Newt felt his gaze and closed his own eyes, willing it to be over.

He swallowed and immediately shuddered at the brush of warm fingers down and along his spine, replaced by a cool wand tip which retraced their path in reverse, drawn up along his vertebrae. Newt felt the magic coming off of the wand; it set his teeth on edge and gave him gooseflesh.

Grindelwald next brought his wand to the fresh bruises blooming purple around Newt’s throat. He pressed on a particularly tender spot, and Newt’s breath hitched in pain, but there was a spark of pleasure, too. Newt’s eyes snapped open. Grindelwald’s own narrowed at the mixture of surprised longing and disgust that flitted across Newt’s face. He raised Newt’s chin with two fingers, and brought his wand across Newt’s bloodied lips, where it hovered, resting, as though a plea for silence. Red glistened on the white wood. Newt held his breath. But then Grindelwald sprang back a step, rocked back on his heels and brightened. 

“Ah! I know just the thing,” Grindelwald said lightly. “A personal touch, if you will.”

He stood near Newt again, so close that his mouth nearly brushed Newt’s ear in a mocking semblance of an embrace. Newt could not move, but he averted his gaze. He felt warm breath ghost his ear and jaw. He smelled burnt hair and smoke, and expensive cologne. He tried not to shiver. Grindelwald admired, for a moment, the milky pallor of Newt’s skin, which emphasized the magizoologist’s freckles and bruises, and gave away his fright. Then he leaned in and peered over Newt’s right shoulder, his wand arm snaking around Newt’s left hip. He stood on his toes and whispered an incantation, tracing his wand along Newt’s back. The wandwork was no longer a leisurely threat but deliberate and precise. Newt’s breath stuttered. There was a tingling numbness, and then Newt’s eyes flew open once more, this time wide and glassy with pain. Tears spilled over and fell down his face, dripping onto the ground and onto Grindelwald’s shoulder.

There was a burning and stinging, as of immense cold, across Newt’s back, off to the left. Grindelwald’s wand was executing a design, etching lines and curves into his flesh. Newt could feel the dark magic pouring off of the curse and through his skin. It seemed to turn his blood to ice. There was a hand in his hair, tugging up, arching his spine, and cold fire spouted from the wand and circulated through Newt’s arteries and his magical core. His usually warm and mobile magic was crystallizing, turning hard and cold. Tears streamed down his face as the pain mounted. Finally, Newt’s eyes rolled back in his head, and the magizoologist collapsed into Grindelwald’s arms.

The dark wizard lowered him gently to the ground, and wiped the tear-tracks on Newt’s face with the back of his hand. 

“I took a leaf out of your book,” Grindelwald said softly, and not without humor. 

He put his wand away and glanced about. All seemed still aside from a chill night breeze. Grindelwald sighed deeply and allowed himself the pleasure of burying both hands into the unconscious magizoologist’s hair, running his nails along his scalp. It was the perfect length to fist his hands into. He brushed the wispy waves from the magizoologist’s forehead to reveal a sluggishly bleeding cut. His thumb smudged a trail of congealing blood down Newt’s temple and into his disheveled curls. He eyed Newt’s broken lip, and ran his nails and fingertips over that slack mouth, the soft warmth of the swollen, injured lips. Grindelwald licked his own, and pulled back slowly when Newt began to stir.

Grindelwald Summoned a narrow brown ribbon from where it had fallen on the platform. He brought it to his face and inhaled, then pocketed it and leaned back on the rail to watch Newt, who was coming to with a broken groan.

The wound on his back burned, sending waves of pain across his entire body. Newt felt chilled, like he had been pumped full of Acromantula venom and then soaked in cold water. Had he managed to fall into the Seine? Everything ached, and the metal grating bit into what felt like open sores on his back something fierce. He was absurdly grateful for his wool trousers and leather boots as he lay bleeding on the icy metal.

Grindelwald stood silent a long moment, examining his nails, which were smeared with blood. Newt began to tremble from the cold, or perhaps the aftereffects of the Cruciatus. He rolled onto his side with an effort. Something warm was trickling down the small of his back, now, and dripping through the grating. 

“Did you know that I encountered your dear, heroic brother on the shore of the Somme?” Grindelwald began, and the white, bloodstained wand glowed lilac again. “We spoke at some length and found that we held similar views when it comes to the greater good. The Order of Merlin that he won? I’m sure he told you the story. No?”

“L-look, y-you can’t t-torture someone and expect them t-to trust or believe you,” Newt forced out. He felt lightheaded and exasperated with Grindelwald’s lies.

There was a wail in the distance, and then the wind carried the unmistakable howl of a werewolf. Grindelwald looked back at Newt with some regret. He frowned, and undid the silver clasp at his throat. 

“So you don’t catch chill,” he said brusquely, removing his cloak and swinging it to drape across Newt’s bare shoulders with one smooth motion. It clasped itself, just below the dark bruises ringing the magizoologist’s neck. Newt hated his body for relaxing into the warmth of the other wizard. Then, as an afterthought, Grindelwald withdrew Newt’s wand from his pocket and placed it on Newt’s neatly folded shirt, waistcoat, and coat.

Newt lay on his side in the warmth of the cloak and stared. Without the black cloak, Grindelwald seemed smaller, clad in dark trousers and shirtsleeves under a brocade waistcoat threaded with ornate silver curlicues and a black velvet jacket. One sleeve was burnt away, the skin beneath it blistered an angry red. A silver earring glistened in one of his ears. Newt wondered idly if there was a dress code for dark lords.

“Unfortunately, I am needed elsewhere,” Grindelwald said, all politeness save for the intensity and coolness of his gaze. “But we must speak again. I have been dying to learn how young Credence is doing. Tschüss, Newton!”

Grindelwald Disapparated, his cheery parting words ringing in Newt’s ears. The slickness at his side was hot and slippery, but the cloak was warm and soaked up the blood. He felt very cozy. And that was when, finally, he heard the telltale flutter. Newt used his last reserves of magic to summon his clothes and wand. Then, of his own volition, he inched to the edge and fell for a second and final time from the tower.

Draped across the back of the skeletal flying horse, Newt trembled from the strain of holding on as Pamela flapped her powerful wings. The foreign black cloak streamed behind him, blending both magizoologist and Thestral seamlessly into the night sky.

“Fly lower, Pamela, beyond the Cathedral… yes, good girl, to the Parcheminerie, that’s right. Wait, why are you flying toward… the Hospital? No, Pamela, absolutely not.”

Pamela seemed to know, and Thestrals had keen senses so Newt was sure she could smell, just how unwell her rider was. She touched down lightly onto the roof of the Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital. Newt was telling her off in a mild whisper when the full moon morphed into Grindelwald’s face, but then it became a pale green Puffskein. Pamela was nosing at his side, his face, and Newt giggled, and sobbed, and then he knew no more.

 


	9. Shields

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Thank you for your comments, and kudos and such. Please do continue to leave feedback and I'll respond (eventually). It makes my days brighter! I love your comments and your feedback and your guesses very much.
> 
> So, in my headcanon, Theseus' relationship with Newt is a bit strained, and I tried to convey this. They are brothers and they love each other and all that, but they are quite different and have somewhat different value systems... Also, Tina appears! I think Tina is a fantastic character and I am not sure how to do her justice, but I'm going to try!
> 
> Oh--> I think the credit goes to author of one of my very favorite sets of stories on here, the [Signalling Theory: Blue Coat](https://archiveofourown.org/series/638690) series by [obaewankenope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexthranduil/pseuds/obaewankenope), for the idea of Newt and Thee's Apparition as a trademark feat of speed and agility <3

**Chapter 9: Shields**

Having survived the Great War, the tradition of splitting their stores of firewhiskey lived on in the skirmishes that followed. Percival Graves and Theseus Scamander were usually proud to keep up this tradition in imperious silence. Not this night.

Theseus narrowed his eyes at his friend and fellow Director of Magical Security across the pond. His latest remark merited this reaction.

“At Newt?” Theseus asked. 

Percival nodded, staring intently into his firewhiskey. Theseus gazed at Percival, frowning.

“You mean that you didn’t like the way that insane, evil, murdering fascist bastard was looking at Newt? Well, I do prefer my little brother not to meet up with mass murderers too, yeah,” Theseus snapped. “You know what the Healers have revealed? Cruciatus, Stinging Hexes, Severing Spells, all manner of dark magic. You know what he carved into his back? His symbol, his damn sign. Curse-breakers don’t know how to fix it, let alone what sort of dark magic he wove into it…”

Percival’s eyes moved from his glass to the fireplace, where the orange embers glowed and emanated warmth. They were most unlike the brutal, blue flames of Fiendfyre he and the younger Scamander had faced down recently. Percival could still see Newt wilting as Grindelwald held him by the neck, the dark wizard drinking in the sight of Newt’s fluttering eyelashes as he wavered on the edge of consciousness. Percival knew precisely what predatory, sadistic expression Grindelwald wore upon winning a duel. This was subtly different, and rather more alarming. Graves had never seen that look on Grindelwald’s face before.

“Newt held his own well, considering he’s not an Auror. But it was strange… He was captivated, Theseus. He barely looked away. It bears watching.”

Theseus gulped down his firewhiskey and set the glass down onto the table. Hard.

“I know he needs watching, Graves! That madman is out to start another Great War, for Merlin’s sake. And he’s singled out my little brother, for whatever reason!”

“Newt caught him in New York,” Percival interjected mildly, pouring Theseus another portion.

“Thanks. I mean, Merlin’s beard, Graves. Now that lord subjugate-the-Muggles wants revenge, I don’t know what to do. We dueled when Newt got back to Britain. We had a row, and it devolved… well, it’s a habit with us now, I’ve tried arresting him but he always escapes. He won’t listen to me, he never really has. When it came down to it, I made him promise to lay low for a few months while we caught the dark-lord-potentially-bent-on-vengeance. He agreed. But then he goes and does this damn reading, and _of course_ Grindelwald shows up to ruin it for him,” Theseus ran his hands through his auburn hair and groaned.

“I don’t know that Newt’s ever had a success to himself, you know? It’s almost like he’s averse to success. I asked him to come to the Western Front when he said he was signing up, that I could get some strings pulled and look after him. He refused, said he wanted to work with creatures. It’s been like that his whole life, Graves,” Theseus went on. “It’s like, the work he does is superfluous. Like he’s trying to make a virtue of the unnecessary. He fights powerfully for what society sees as insignificant and powerless. But it’s not something that is ever rewarded, by definition—as I keep telling him—and he won’t accept help, or redirection, and…and he’s perfected the art of disappearing. Mother used to tell us stories about Diricrawls and Demiguises and he took them too much to heart. I always preferred Beedle, myself…” Theseus lapsed into nostalgic silence.

They sat in the dark blue-upholstered armchairs in the wood-paneled office in the heart of the French Ministry. Two glasses and a bottle of firewhisky rested on the low table between them. Theseus was smoking a pipe and shaking his head and sighing. Graves reflected that Theseus was more open, more expressive than his younger brother. One was compelled to look more closely, with Newt.

“We made a decent team,” Graves mused, watching Theseus exhale a ring of smoke. The elder Scamander turned to him.

“I need you to promise me you won’t tell anyone else what you told me,” Theseus said, sounding surprisingly sober.

“It’s fairly obvious to anyone with eyes,” said Graves, but he nodded at Theseus’s glare. “Very well, I promise, Scamander.”

“Good,” said Theseus.

“Though I would think more sanctioned protection would be desirable, given the circumstances.”

Theseus gave Percival a calculating look, and said, “Has the urgency to apprehend Grindelwald altered in the hours since the Parcheminerie clash? After you filed your reports and attended your emergency meetings? I’ve talked with the WICA representatives and the European governments have grown desperate. Willie Chasepierre and my contact in Munich confirm that the French and Germans are on the same page—they want to apprehend Grindelwald. If he and others are killed in the act, then it was for a good cause. The Ministry, on the other hand, will go to any lengths to ignore him.”

“Ignore this? The battle in the street?” said Graves, studying a newly-healed scar on the back of his right hand. “Those are some impressive blinders, even for you Brits.”

“Not just the battle, Gravesy. A grand total of three werewolves reported running around Paris? Two separate break-ins at a Muggle and wizarding pawnshop? All within the same hour? Something’s going on here. Perhaps America can retain some of its isolationist practices for a time, but that’ll be over soon, too.”

Theseus set down his pipe and leaned forward, eyeing Graves intently.

“If they knew about this interest, they’d use Newt to lure out Grindelwald. Newt’s had more than enough encounters with danger, Graves. Most of ’em he keeps mum about. I don’t want him serving as bait. I don’t want him anywhere close to this investigation. Especially not with our record against Grindelwald.”

“No,” said Graves, after a long pause. “I would not like to see that either.”

“I’m glad you’re running the MLE, old boy. MACUSA wouldn’t be the same without you.”

“I have been thinking of leaving,” said Graves. Theseus sputtered.

Graves smiled thinly; “Goldstein would take my place readily enough.”

“You can’t retire, Gravesy!” said Theseus, voice pitched high. “I just put in a request for you to consult with us. You’ve got the highest position over there—what more do you want?”

“Your Ministry has asked me to consult, yes,” Percival admitted. “But I said only that I have been thinking of leaving. Not that I was. I do not like the political stirrings back home. The President is facing heavy fire for last year’s incident, and I am not very popular, either. New factions are rising, unnaturally quickly. There’s fear and hostility to Nomajs, to people whose skin is not the _right_ shade, to those whose ancestors came from the wrong country. The scapegoating has only gotten worse since the death of Senator Shaw’s son. The Nomajs are feeling it, too. I’ve put Goldstein and Goldstein on it, but no luck so far. I’m sure at least one Congresswizard is to blame for the leaks. The _Daily Ghost_ has to have an inside source… Grimsditch and Carneirus have been recalcitrant, and Fischer has been oddly quiet of late, and Jauncey has been acting strange, too… I cannot be sure in anyone, it seems, least of all my Aurors. The political restlessness, the unprecedented economic growth, it smacks of conspiracy. Seraphina says I’m paranoid, of course.”

“We need dependable people now more than ever,” Theseus said, addressing the embers in the fireplace. “You know the threat. Personally. You won’t deny it the way Fawley has been doing.”

“I know,” Percival said heavily, downing the last of his whiskey. “Come on, Scamander. We’ve reports to finish."

“I have an errand to run,” said Theseus, sighing. “Maybe Goldstein would help me.”

“She mentioned wanting to visit the Hospital first thing. Your brother has a way of inspiring loyalty, it seems,” Graves said. 

“And attracting trouble,” said Theseus. “Please watch out for him, when you can? Merlin knows he never takes my advice.”

Percival nodded. His dark eyes were stormy but his voice was steady and neutral.

“I owe him for recognizing Grindelwald’s impersonation,” he said. “And I repay my debts. Besides, it seems you schooled him in dueling. I’ve only ever seen Scamanders Apparate with such speed and precision in the midst of battle, and bring in such unexpected reinforcements.”

Theseus’s blue eyes softened, and he slapped Graves on the arm. “Fat load of good it did with those wards in place… but thanks, Gravesy. You’re a right decent bloke.”

He vanished the bottle and glasses, and the two wizards left the office. The embers smoldered on. The only evidence of their meeting was the smell of Theseus’ tobacco that lingered in the air. 

* * *

Tina concluded that layovers at tiny Portkey terminals (which didn’t even serve coffee) were a bitch. She arrived at the Gare du Nord with her overnight bag and fog before her eyes. She nodded at the witch who took the rusty hammer from her and directed her to security.

“Please hold out your arms. Are you carrying or wearing any glamours, potions, magical objects or other enchantments altering your appearance from your passport photograph?” said the wizard at the security checkpoint. “Are there any beasts, living or dead, or agricultural products or byproducts in your luggage? Are you carrying over one hundred and fifty galleons of undisclosed merchandise which you plan to sell abroad? Toxic substances, mind-altering potions, or anything off the travel advisory list?”

Tina shook her head at the questions and watched as the wizard passed his wand over her bag, and then over her body.

“What is your purpose in visiting France?” said the wizard, and his dictaquill hovered over a long scroll of parchment. Tina handed him the letter President Picquery had written for her.

“Work, I suppose,” said Tina. “I’m the Co-Director of Magical Law Enforcement at MACUSA, as you can see.”

The wizard glanced down to read her credentials and seemed to jolt out of a daze. His eyes cleared and he even gave a cough of surprise.

“Oh! Very well, very well, bien sûr,” he said, writing something down and looking at her passport and then back up at Tina. “Go ahead, then. Morgana help you Aurors sort this out, Madame.”

“I will do my best,” Tina said, taking back her expanded handbag. In her grey woolen peacoat, Tina blended naturally into the stream of Nomajs leaving the station.

She turned into the nearest Floo dispensary, a pub with a roomful of enormous fireplaces in the back. Tina gave two Sickles to the attending witch and got in line. Eventually, it was her turn to throw a handful of powder and announce her destination. She stepped into the pub fireplace and out into the lobby of the Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital. Where she got into another line.

“Identification?” said the bored witch from behind the desk.

Tina sighed and went through the rigmarole again. She was issued a badge that said _Visitor_ in bright yellow letters, and told to follow the hallway to the Intensive Curse-Breaking Unit. In the waiting room of the ICBU, she found piping hot coffee, and finally poured herself the cuppa she had desired since the Portkey.

“Goldstein?”

Tina jumped.

“Sir!” she said, coughing.

Percival raised his eyebrows and Tina set her cup down, blushing.

“I see you’ve decided to leave your post,” Graves observed.

Tina’s face fell.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Graves. I was going to check in right away,” she began, but Percival’s stony expression arrested her speech. There was a tense pause where Tina’s guilty eyes avoided Percival’s oddly blank and expressionless ones. A blush of shame rose across the sides of Tina’s neck and crept up to her cheekbones, but she was sure that her concern for Newt was more important than spying in on Seraphina’s meetings. She would not back down in this emotional certainty.

“Do you know why the ancient Romans elected two consuls, and not one, Tina?” Graves asked suddenly.

“Mr. Graves?” said Tina, blindsided by what seemed an irrelevant question.

“Call me Percival, I told you, we’re colleagues. It was so one could remain and keep an eye on Rome whilst the other took command of the troops in the field,” Percival said. “The consul who remained behind was vital to the security of the Republic. He kept an eye out for treachery, for coups and plots to overthrow the government. He did not desert his post.”

Tina looked down at her feet and swallowed, but then she raised her eyes and stubbornly stared Percival down. His eyes were exacting, but after a minute of tense regard his mouth quirked up and he said, “It’s only been a few hours, but last I heard, the Healers were working to stabilize his magic.”

Tina broke into a relieved smile, and then she looked at Percival more carefully.

“Pardon me for saying so, Percival,” she said, “But you are looking well.”

Percival frowned.

“In the aftermath of fighting Grindelwald, you mean?” he said ironically.

“No,” Tina said quickly. “Well, yes, but I meant…compared to when I saw you last. Something is different. I’m not sure what.”

Percival made a noise in the back of his throat and sat down into a plastic chair to wait for the Healers to admit them. Tina watched him sit, struggling to put words to what she felt had changed in her boss—no, in her colleague, she corrected herself.

She took her coffee up again and savored a long, hot sip.

“I don’t suppose you’ve seen Queenie?” she said. “I know the reports said she was safe, but…”

“Kit bundled her and the Nomaj off to her quarters,” he said. “Though Theseus Scamander did mention he had an errand to run and wanted to borrow your sister.”

“How is he? And you? I mean, you didn’t mention any injuries on the reports, but I assume…” Tina trailed off. Percival gave her a satisfied nod.

“Good, read between the lines. We’re fine, just a few Blasting Curses. Nothing terribly out of the ordinary except the Fiendfyre." 

“Fiendfyre!” Tina gasped, “How did you fail to mention that?”  
  
“You read my report? Only mine?” said Percival, his forehead furrowing.

Tina looked down at her shoes.

“You’re usually much more thorough,” Percival said, and sighed. “Though I suppose you were worried. You arrived in a timely manner, even if you were supposed to be keeping an eye and ear out in MACUSA. Always corroborate your sources, Tina! One report, one perspective, is never reliable. Do you have your Sneakoscope?”

Tina nodded, hand clutching at her coat pocket, where a small, brass spinning top was resting. If untrustworthy people were near, the top would begin to whirl and emit a shrill whistling sound. Newt had written her suggesting Tina acquire some enchantment to detect lying – he had suggested Flitterby antennae –  in the wake of their government's infiltration. Tina had preferred to confiscate a variety of mismatched Sneakoscopes from the evidence lockers instead of the animal parts. They had been invaluable to the department on several occasions, and Percival carried a silver one in his breastpocket. Gnarlak had been brought in for questioning on a case regarding trafficking of Ukrainian Ironbelly scales, which were harder than steel and carried natural and powerful protective enchantments. Gnarlak had been more recalcitrant than usual, even for him, when questioned on the topic, and the Sneakoscope had alerted Tina that he was holding out. Without proof, however, she had had to let Gnarlak free again. She had Jauncey following him back in the States.

Percival insisted she carried the little top with her at all times. Tina did not bring up the impersonation, but she never forgot the Sneakoscope, and had even found a dainty pink one to give to Queenie. The resemblance to a children's toy had tickled her younger sister.

Tina took out the Sneakoscope and held it out on her palm, towards Percival. It lay quietly on its side. 

The doorway glowed momentarily dark blue as a Healer walked through the Quarantine Ward on the doorway.

“How is he?” said Tina nervously, at the same time as Graves said, “Well?”

The Healer huffed out a breath and swallowed. She looked tired, and young.

“You’re here for Mr. Scamander? I’m going to need to see some documentation.”

“What? But we’ve got these,” Tina gestured at her badge. “Is this standard protocol?”

“Now,” said the Healer. Her English was almost perfect, and her close-cropped blond hair, dark eyes, and circles beneath them were as severe as her manner.

Graves withdrew his Auror identification, and Tina did the same. The silver MACUSA crest glittered in the dim light. Their passports were stamped with visas and Wand Permits, and they had been granted diplomatic status. Tina also showed off the letter from Picquery.

“Thank you, that’s sufficient,” said the Healer tiredly.

“Someone came to see him before,” said Percival shrewdly. “Who?”

“A young woman, British, I think,” said the Healer. “Dark hair and skin. We had to get security. She was trying to see him just as were getting to work. She had a tall, bearded man with her. Claimed to be Albus Dumbledore! Didn’t have any documents, of course, so we didn’t admit him.”

“You sent Albus Dumbledore away?” said Percival, schooling his face back into a neutral expression. His eyebrows had jumped up.

“I don’t know who he was, but our patient was not stable.”  
  
“Is he now?” Tina interrupted.

“Yes. Well, mostly,” said the Healer. “Healers Delacoeur and Bernard are taking over for now. They are our most experienced Curse-Breakers. He is stable, physically, but his magic continues to fluctuate.”

Another Healer stepped out from the charmed door, an older woman wearing full cap and apron uniform. She glared at the young Healer.

“Marie Therese Marchand! Go home and sleep at once,” she scolded. “You are going to be needed again soon. Who are you?”

Young Healer Marchand winced and nodded goodbye, taking the excuse to leave.

“Tina Goldstein, and this is Percival Graves. We’re investigating the incidents at the Garnier and Parcheminerie,” said Tina quickly. “But we’re also Newt’s friends. How is he? Is he going to be alright?”

She gestured them through the doorway, after carefully examining their documents yet again. The blue glow of the Disinfecting Charm tingled on their skin.

“Healer Bernard,” said the elderly Healer. “Mr. Scamander is in my charge now. I will let you see him for a few moments, but I warn you. He is not conscious, and will not be for some time. Do not touch him or use any of your magic once we enter the ward.”

They walked down a hallway and past a series of doors with frosted glass windows. Screams, wails, and for some reason, hisses, emanated from behind the numbered doors. They came to one that was quite silent, and Healer Bernard opened it and let them through.

It was a room with pink wallpaper and several cots. Newt lay on one of these, unconscious and on his stomach, his head turned away from the door, an arm hanging down from the cot. Tina saw his mussed hair and his bared back striped with old scars, up to where a blanket was draped for modesty. His lower back was inflamed beneath bloodstained bandages. A dark welt from a Stinging Hex lashed across his shoulder blades.

There was a charged, eerie feeling in the room. A strange energy was seeping from beneath the bandages, just slightly distorting the air around them. Tina let go of Percival’s arm once she realized she had grabbed it. She murmured an apology and circled around the cot. Percival followed, slowly.

Healer Bernard went to talk to Healer Delacoeur, an old gentleman with white hair who was reading from a thick tome. He made minute adjustments to the piles of herbs gathered across several tables. There were shelves and cupboards full of potions ingredients stowed neatly around the room, and a bubbling cauldron gave off a smell of juniper. The Healers spoke in hushed voices.

Newt lay with his eyes closed and his lashes fluttering. He looked to be dreaming. He was unusually pale, and his freckles stood out on his face and down his arms and back. Tina winced at the dark bruises on his throat, the cuts and scrapes on his face smeared with congealing blood. Percival frowned, too.

“What’s the injury on his back?” he said quietly.

“That is what we are wondering about,” said Healer Delacoeur. “We have never seen anything quite like it. It isn’t hurting him now – beyond the initial wound. But it is reluctant to heal, and just seething with uncontained magic. It’s odd – there does not seem to be an outside source.”

“We believe he’s trying to fight it off. His magic is rejecting the graft of the curse, so to speak,” said Healer Bernard. “But the curse is…” she paused.

“It is very strong,” put in Healer Delacoeur, shaking his head. “It will likely drain him enough so that it might take effect. We are not sure what that effect will be.”  
  
“Ideally we would have broken the curse before he succumbed to its effects,” said Healer Bernard, because Tina looked like she was about to cry. “Though to be honest, there seem to be no lethal effects so far, beyond the strain on his magic – which we are certain will pass. The Curse may simply need to run its course. It is a very unusual case.”

“What have you tried so far?” asked Tina. There were no tears on her face, but they were audible in her voice.

The Healers began to tell Tina of their process, but Percival was focused on Newt. His eyes were moving beneath delicate eyelids. Scamander’s lashes were long and curved against his skin. Percival reached out a hand, gently pulling the eyelid up. A piece of iris came into view, the pupil a dot in a blue-green sea. It flickered unseeing, eyelashes and eyelid intimately soft against Percival’s fingers. If it would help, it may be worth the risk, Percival thought absently. It would be a gamble...

“Excuse me! What are you doing?” came the voice of Healer Delacoeur.

Percival muttered the spell, but nothing happened. There was not even the blankness of unconsciousness.

Newt Scamander’s mind was expertly shielded.


	10. Aid and Assistants

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't help an update, even though I've only written up to chapter 15 and ought to space them out. I loved your comments so much, I'm positively thirsty for them. It's becoming a problem <3
> 
> In other words, please do keep engaging and talking to me, it makes me unbearably happy. I know this chapter is short and I'm sorry for that. As a bonus to this short chapter, be sure to go back and check out the art in chapter 8 -- it's another smaller commission from the talented Sayatsugu! <3 She is the loveliest. But I'm out of time and money for the moment. I will be back soon, however! 
> 
> This might read like filler but there are some things being set up... Next chapter Percival gets to confront Dumbledore ;)

**Chapter 10: Aid and Assistants**

“That was very dangerous, Mr. Graves!” Healer Delacoeur said. “But since you did it, what did you see?”

Tina turned wide eyes on him, but Percival just shook his head.

“He was Occluding. Extremely effectively. I’ve rarely been blocked like that,” he said, “and never by someone who is unconscious. How is this possible?”

“That’s strange,” said Tina. “Queenie says Newt is particularly easy to read despite his accent. She says he can block a bit, but it’s makeshift defenses, like a student or dilettante might have. Someone who’s very sensitive and so has to block stimuli out, rather than blocking others out in order to keep things in, she said.”

Percival glanced between Tina and the unconscious Newt.

“Perhaps we should bring Queenie to take a look, then,” he said. The unresponsiveness had alarmed him. It was bizarre to see Scamander lying so still after their recent battle. Newt had been a flash of blue, whirling in and out of the fray, reappearing with the Thestrals. A solid presence, he had sensed the backup Percival needed with Auror-like instincts. Newt had spared Percival another one-on-one encounter with Grindelwald, and a part of Percival had been relieved. He loathed that part of himself. And now Newt lay dreaming, cursed and beyond their aid. The familiar feeling of guilt washed over Percival. It had dogged him since Grindelwald had overpowered him last year, but this guilt felt cleaner, somehow, and sharper.

Indeed, now that he noticed it, his magic felt unusually strong. The constant niggling of worry in the back of his mind had quieted in the aftermath of the intense battle. Percival had written this off as adrenaline, but now he wondered.

The magizoologist had saved him twice, now, and Percival Graves did not like to feel indebted. He had seen Grindelwald blasted straight through the Fiendfyre, his wand flying out of his hand. This had not really registered before, but Scamander’s skill—or luck—was staggering. Perhaps it had to do with Grindelwald’s interest, or his underestimating the magizoologist? Percival vowed he would not underestimate Newt Scamander.

Percival had glimpsed Newt’s silhouette through the circle of pale flames. Newt had Disapparated, and Grindelwald had stumbled to his feet, surprise giving way to a reptilian smile. He had closed his eyes and dismantled the Anti-Apparition curse, wandless, and then breathed deeply as though scenting a trail before he Disapparated. This was about the time the Knights began their strategic retreat, and Theseus and Percival were working to herd them away from the Nomajs.

“Very interesting,” said Healer Delacoeur, making another note, and snapping Percival out of his thoughts.

Healer Bernard was waving them out, grumbling about invasive methods, and Percival took Tina aside.

“How are you going to proceed, now that you’re here?” he asked her. It was an invitation to take the reins, and Tina straightened up, recognizing the offer. 

“We’ll need to reschedule WICA, and offer our assistance to the French Ministry, meanwhile,” she said. “I was going to try to meet with Girande and his people, now. We need a plan for next month, if the werewolves come back. Scamander’s report said several of them? Which…” Tina shook her head, her face strained. “…it’s not looking good. We could have used Newt’s expertise on that one.”

“We shall have it,” said Percival firmly.

“I hope so,” Tina said. “Will you come along to see Girande?”

“Not yet. Be sure to sample the firewhiskey in their conference room after you meet with Girande. What’s left of it. Good luck, Tina.”

“See you, sir,” said Tina, and her heeled boots clicked down the hallway and back to the lobby.

Percival waited a few seconds and turned back around, striding quickly and softly back to the ICBU ward and Newt’s room. Inside, the Healers were talking.

He knocked and went in.

“Back so soon, Mr. Graves?” said Healer Bernard. Healer Delacoeur merely smiled.

“Thought I might stay, out of sight,” said Percival. 

“Very well,” Delacoeur said, magicking a folding screen partition to section off the empty cot at the end of the room. “We can treat you for recklessness, though there is no known cure.”

Graves shrugged elegantly and spelled the partition to one-way transparency.

“We may require some assistance,” said Healer Bernard suddenly. “If we might, we three could contain some of the curse with the use of our magic and save Mr. Scamander some energy.”  
  
“It might mitigate his exhaustion, in the short term,” Delacoeur agreed. “Mr. Graves?”

“Say the word,” Percival inclined his head. His dark eyes glittered like bits of obsidian beneath dark brows.

* * *

Queenie Goldstein watched Jacob sleep and envied him, just a little. They were staying at Kit’s apartment in the Montmartre. The place was teeming of books and wide windows, through which the full moon painted the Sacre Coeur silver. Soon the sun would begin to rise, and the dark sky would lighten to the greys and yellows of dawn. Queenie wanted to go back to sleep, too, to curl up next to Jacob under the warm covers and drift into warm dreams. But the commotion of the day, the swirling panic, anger and excitement of the battle from earlier was buzzing in her head. It had given her confused and jumbled dreams, and she had awoken early. The play of green light on Jacob’s features haunted her thoughts.

Pickett made an impressive leap from Jacob’s pillow onto her hand, and Queenie smiled and perched him onto her shoulder. She sighed, gathered her pink coat about her, and went downstairs to make herself a hot drink. Pickett chirped at her, and she mumbled encouragement in turn. He pulled on her pearl earring, turning her head.

“What is it-? Ouch,” said Queenie, and followed the Bowtruckle’s frantic pointing. The sequined pillow she had conjured to accommodate Newt’s Niffler was empty.

“Oh, bother,” said Queenie. “I see why Newt’s always chasing that one. Where did it go?”

She threw back the rest of her cocoa (liberally dosed with Kit’s very expensive-looking cognac), burning the roof of her mouth, and set down the cup.

“ _Accio_ Niffler!” she said, but nothing in the house stirred. She checked behind the couch, the curtains, atop the bookshelf…

“Any suggestions?” she asked Pickett. The Bowtruckle waved toward the street outside the window. Queenie glanced out at the gas streetlamps and the sloping city street. The grocer’s across the way was closed, but the boy running the newspaper stand had begun to open up the booth and display his wares. A ways down the street, the window of a closed pawnshop glimmered with watch-chains and hair combs. Queenie inhaled sharply.

“Ah-ha!” she said. Minutes later, Pickett was opening the lock on the door as Queenie peered guiltily about the stirring street. The latch clicked.

“Thanks,” she whispered to the Bowtruckle, who hopped back onto her sleeve with a wave. “I’ve never broken into a shop before,” she confessed. “Though I did work as a shop girl when we were younger. But that was selling gloves, things like that.”

The pawnshop was a mess. It looked like someone had searched it hastily already, and it took Queenie a moment to realize that it was probably her quarry. Glittery brooches, sparkling pendants and old coins lay in small heaps on the floor. Broken wooden stands and shards of colored glass crunched beneath her shoes. A trail of costume jewelry led to a cupboard full of empty perfume bottles and something furry. Queenie bent down and extracted the Niffler. It was tucking something into its pouch.

“Hey! You give that back!” said Queenie, giving the Niffler a little shake. No good. The Niffler looked at her with innocent eyes, its pouch and its treasures hidden from view.

“How did Newt get you to return things?” Queenie muttered. She grabbed a handful of Sickles and Knuts from her pocket, then thought better of it and transfigured the silver into a goblet.

Holding Horace on one arm with her other hand buried in the furry scruff of his neck, hiding him in her coat like a swaddled baby, Queenie marched back down the street. A homeless man in ragged clothes and with dirt on his face was lying on a flattened cardboard box near the sewer canal. The drab grey and brown of his hair and rags blended so well into the street that Queenie nearly stepped on him. He rolled over and growled unintelligibly when she walked around him. Drunks had strange thoughts, Queenie decided, and this one’s vision of the city was particularly vivid and unusual. Perhaps absinthe had something to do with it.

Dawn illuminated the street with a peachy-yellow glow. The newspapers announced a gas leak at the Parcheminerie, and Queenie exchanged two Knuts (the paperboy took them for pence instead of Francs) for a paper, which she tucked into her coat pocket.  
  
“How does an older lady manage all these stairs?” she asked Pickett, breathing hard. The warmth of an oven greeted her when she walked back into Kit’s apartment. Jacob had apparently awoken, and been busy.

“Something smells amazing,” she said, coming up behind Jacob and giving him a peck on the cheek.

“I was wondering where you was,” he said. He was wearing a pink, frilled apron and Queenie smiled widely at the sight. “There’s a fellow calling for you in the fireplace? I think? I don’t know if that’s normal or if he’s stuck or somethin’.”

“Oh, thanks darling, that’s just a Floo call. I’ll explain later!” Queenie said, stealing a biscuit and depositing the paper on the table. “Can you find a place to keep this one? It ran away!”

Jacob was left holding Horace awkwardly, flour from his hands turning the Niffler’s fur white. Horace sneezed, and Jacob grinned at him.

“Troublemaker, eh?” he said. “You know, goldfoil is used to decorate real fancy pastries…”

Queenie approached Kit’s fireplace in the entry room. Every bit of wall was lined in bookshelves, here, and there were piles of parchment and scrolls strewn across the work surfaces and the floor. These gave a wide berth to the fireplace set in the wall, where the embers were crackling with green sparks.

Queenie took her wand from its pocket and waved in the call. Theseus Scamander’s head popped out of the fireplace, blinking up at her. There were bags under his eyes, and a tension in his face which had been absent in battle. Apparently even Aurors across the pond hated paperwork, Queenie reflected.

“Queenie Goldstein!” he said. “Kit said I’d find you at hers. Sorry to disturb you at this hour.” 

“How’s Newt?” said Queenie, sitting upon the leg-rest of an overstuffed armchair to get closer to the face in the flames. 

“Healers are still working to figure it out, but they say he’s near-stable. Whatever that means,” Theseus said, his gaze turning hollow. “About that… you know about his assistant, right?”

“Yes,” Queenie said. “Wait. Newt was supposed to return tomorrow-no, this morning.”

“Precisely,” said Theseus. “I’m going to go see him now and update him on the situation. He should be able to care for the beasts a while longer, but I don’t want to leave _him_ unsupervised or unaware of what’s going on. I need to tell him why Newt isn’t back yet. But without…causing him undue stress.”

“I’m happy to help,” said Queenie, catching on at once.

Theseus’s face broke into a relieved frown. “I would be very grateful to you. Could you come through now? There’s a Fidelius Charm on the place, I can whisper it into your ear.”


	11. Beyond the domain of healers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you get a double update because I was embarrassed at the length (the shortness) of that last chapter. Ahem.
> 
> So it'll be a week-ish before I can update again, if I have any discipline at all.  
> <3

**Chapter 11: Beyond the domain of healers**

Albus Dumbledore stepped out of the Stockwell Orphanage onto Vauxhall Road and sighed. Headmaster Dippet preferred a personal touch when it came to orphans, and Albus agreed, but that did not make it easy on the Professor charged with performing these visits. He felt for the Muggle children who would have to remain in these dreary surroundings while one lucky boy was offered the escape of boarding school. Hogwarts was sheer luxury compared to the conditions at Stockwell.

His father had loathed Muggles, but as he left Stockwell behind and Disapparated, Albus wondered how justified the converse feeling would be. The Statute of Secrecy was painful in many ways, but here it served to blind Muggles to the injustices committed by freeing just one child. Stockwell was no workhouse, but it was no loving home, either.

Then again, Albus reflected grimly, not everyone was lucky enough for the latter. He stepped out from the alley he had Apparated to and came to a newspaper stand, where he paid two pence for a Muggle paper. There was a short column on the fourth page detailing a gas explosion in Paris. Albus strolled across the way to the park, his two-tone oxfords crunching on yellow leaves in the gutter. His dapper tweed suit and black wool overcoat gave him the look of a distinguished Muggle, and the top hat with its Gryffindor-red ribbon provided a touch of color which was otherwise lacking in Muggle fashion. So, too, did his yellow tie. Albus loved color, and places like Stockwell were in sore need of it. The children there had uniforms of the drabbest grey. Albus found a bench in the park across the way and settled comfortably beneath the yellowing foliage of a linden tree. A pair of clear blue eyes peered over a newspaper at the morning bustle of the waking city.

At the appointed hour, an elegant young lady dressed in a black fur cloak perched down next to the dapper gentleman with the newspaper.

“Professor Dumbledore,” she said. Her face was beautiful but tired, as if she had not slept the night. “I had an owl from my contact at the hospital. They should allow visitors, now.”

Albus inclined his head and put away the paper. He glanced around, and cast a Notice-Me-Not Charm upon their bench. Then he took a thimble from his coat pocket and tapped it with his wand.

“Ready, Miss Lestrange?” he said, “Three. Two. One.”

The bearded man and the beautiful lady vanished from the bench, as if they had never been there. The Portkey whisked them into the waiting room of the ICBU of a hospital in Paris.

“Good thing no one’s here,” said Leta, straightening and dusting her cloak. “I can’t imagine that was legal.”

“Come along,” Albus said.

Leta wondered how Dumbledore knew which door of the ward led to Newt. He walked confidently to the end of the hallway, knocked, and opened a door seemingly at random.

“Good evening,” he said, greeting Healers Bernard and Delacoeur. “I’m a former instructor of Mr. Scamander’s. Albus Dumbledore,” he gestured at Leta, “And this is his friend, Miss Leta Lestrange. May we visit with Mr. Scamander?”

Healer Bernard began to object, but Healer Delacoeur cast a look at a screen partition at the far end of the room and said, “Perhaps a short visit, Mr. Dumbledore.”

Leta rushed to Newt’s cot. He still lay upon his stomach, but now a blanket was pulled up over his shoulders. Leta’s face fell at the bruises on his throat and face, which had faded to yellow-brown with the administration of healing creams.

“Gellert made this personal,” Albus muttered quietly. “Most unusual.”

“When will he wake?” said Leta, and to her credit, her voice wavered. “Is he going to be well? What’s happened to him?”

“He’s been cursed,” said Albus. “Can you feel it, Miss Lestrange?”

Leta shook her head. She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate, but remorse and pity seized her face into a grimace almost at once. 

“Is it dark magic?” Leta asked.

“Not as such,” said Albus. “Though not for lack of trying. I do sense dark magic on Mr. Scamander… but the strongest mark upon him now is not Grindelwald’s. No, there is something else at play here, something Gellert did not anticipate…”

“What is your professional opinion?” said Healer Delacoeur. “Mr. Dumbledore? I have encountered several of your publications, notably your work on Dragon’s Blood.”

“Although Dillonsby has written very similar work, and you really should cite him,” said Healer Bernard. It seemed she could not help herself. Dumbledore raised his eyebrows.

“I am not a Healer, of course,” he said, “But I am fairly certain that this curse is beyond the domain of Healers. It is more of a test, I think.”

“A test?” Healer Delacoeur repeated, puzzled.

“Yes,” Albus echoed, “A test. One which Mr. Scamander will pass and survive, or fail.”

“Is there no way to help him?” said Leta. Albus put his hand on her shoulder.

“I do not know,” he said. “Thank you, Miss Lestrange. Would you give me a moment with the Healers, please? I think we are done for today—you have been most helpful, I’m sure.”

Leta was affronted, but she masked it well. The hand on her shoulder was not comfort but silence, and she bore the touch with dignity for a moment. Then she shook it off.

“Good day, Professor,” she said, keeping her eyes on Newt’s still form until the door hid her from view.

Dumbledore turned from the door with a small sigh, and began to walk about the edges of the room, murmuring incantations as he went. When he was done, he stood back. The occupants of the room felt the tingling of protective wards settling into place.

“That was very thorough,” said Percival, stepping out from behind the screen. “Mr. Dumbledore. I am MACUSA’s Director of Magical Law Enforcement, Percival Graves.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” said Albus, not looking surprised in the least at the presence of a heretofore hidden Auror. “My father’s name was Percival. But you must be Gondolphus’s heir. I was just reading about the Original Twelve. Fascinating, how you organized so quickly across the pond.”

“Indeed,” said Percival, sounding sour. “Please enlighten me as to how you know so much about Mr. Scamander’s condition, considering you have only just glimpsed his injuries.”

“Ah,” said Albus, and smiled politely. “Yes, I can see how that might appear suspicious. Well, I suppose I should say that I knew Gellert, before he became what he is now. This is common knowledge, but it bears upon the situation at hand.”

Percival’s scowl deepened. His hand itched to reach for his wand pocket. “Go on,” he said.

“I have always had a sensitivity to magic and magical signatures. Gellert’s is familiar, if somewhat changed. Think of a smell which evokes a nostalgia for your childhood, or a sound or image you associate with a time or a person.”

“I am familiar with the theory of magical signatures,” Percival said.

“Yes. Yes, well, Gellert clearly cursed Mr. Scamander repeatedly,” Albus mused. His keen blue eyes caught the tense line of Graves’s shoulders, the way the Auror stepped between Newt and himself. “But the magic emanating from the injury on his back is not quite Gellert’s. Or rather, it is his but different, somehow. It’s quite mysterious."

Dumbledore paused in thought.

“How is it not the domain of Healers, precisely?” asked Healer Bernard. Graves was pleased to hear the defensive note in the Healer’s voice directed at someone else.

“Think of it as a reaction – a medicinal potion, if you like,” said Albus. His tone had changed subtly to indicate the shift to instructor mode. Some of the wonder bled out of his voice, to be replaced by a slightly detached earnestness. “The magic must assimilate into the substrate. In this case, into Newt’s body and magic. Once it successfully reaches its equilibrium, that is, an exchange where the rate of reaction to and fro has stabilized, to extend the metaphor, the fluctuations should calm significantly. The curse will resolve itself. It’s not harmful magic in its nature, I don’t think. Have you found any harmful side-effects, beyond the fluctuations and unconsciousness?”

The Healers began to affirm Dumbledore’s words, but Percival interrupted.

“You’ve seen this before?” he said, tilting his head back.

“Not as such,” Albus said evenly. “But when I experimented with alchemy with my friend Nicolas, he told me of a similar situation. He made the sign of the Philosopher’s Stone upon his skin, and this connected him, briefly, with its magical essence. There is mysterious power in symbols and words… though what a permanent connection through a scar might entail, I do not know… this is no Rune spell, and it seems to be quite permanent.”

Percival was less inclined to philosophize.

“How did this connection manifest, Mr. Dumbledore? Kindly be more specific.”

“Oh, Nicolas did not tell me,” Albus shrugged. “But I imagine if the substrate was unworthy, it would be overwhelmed by now. Mr. Scamander is unprepossessing, but he is stronger than he seems.”

Percival took a deep breath. It would not do to lose his temper at a pre-eminent scholar and one of the strongest and most influential wizards of the age.

“That he is,” said Healer Bernard, unexpectedly. “But he still needs his rest, as do his Healers. Are you planning on staying all day, gentlemen?”

Albus seemed to come out of a daze. He said, “Might I venture to take a peek at Mr. Scamander? I wonder if we might help alleviate some of his symptoms.”

Percival stepped back reluctantly. Healer Delacoeur removed the sheet from Newt’s back, revealing fresh bandages. Albus raised his hands over the white gauze. He closed his eyes. 

Percival felt the probing of Dumbledore’s magic. Few wizards had refined their magical sensitivity to the point where they could recognize magical signatures, though Percival was not surprised that Dumbledore, like himself, had managed it. The interaction of the curse, which felt cold but somehow refreshing, with Newt’s magic, a nourishing and bright presence, had combined to give the impression of a sunny winter day, the smell of snow or mountain air. Percival did not know how to describe the impressions, and the metaphors did not do them justice. The presence of Albus Dumbledore’s magic confused Percival’s sensitivity—it was several grades too bright, and it rivaled Grindelwald’s magical signature in its intensity. Equal but opposite, Percival thought, and hoped he was right.

Percival had lost his magical sensitivity in the aftermath of his capture. As his magical abilities faded away from the potions Grindelwald forced down his throat and the Draining Curses he continually cast on the Auror, Percival had despaired of ever perceiving the flickering energy of his own or anyone else’s magic coursing in the whorls of charmwork, or the direct beams of curses flung about in duels.

Now that he thought about it, his sensitivity had returned mid-way through the battle, after Newt had fled with Grindelwald’s wand. It had been as though a dam had burst in Percival. Worry for the reckless magizoologist and desperation to protect Queenie, Jacob, and Theseus had combined into a torrential force that must have unstoppered his magic and allowed him to tap into reserves Percival had thought drained and gone. It had felt like breathing deeply for the first time in months. Percival did not know how he had managed without for so long. 

“Most curious,” Albus whispered, opening his bright blue eyes. Percival suddenly perceived, with startling clarity, the outward similarities between the Professor and his former student. Both had unusually clever, perceptive and bright blue eyes and auburn hair, both were tall and lanky, and both were brilliant in their own ways. But Newt had recently stood up to Grindelwald, and had suffered for it. Hogwarts sorting and Houses were hogwash, Percival decided.

“Perhaps Thestrals and a Graves are most suitable companions for a man so attuned to the Hallows,” Dumbledore said softly. “I need to know one more thing. Might I take a look into his memories, for just a second?”

He drew his wand to Newt’s temple. Graves and the Healers moved forward, but Dumbledore’s face suddenly expressed surprise. He lowered his wand. There was no silver thread attached to it.

“He is expertly shielded,” Percival said, unnecessarily. 

“Indeed,” said Albus. “How odd. But I need to know. You were there, Mr. Graves. Did Newt touch…ah, this is a strange question, but it is imperative.”

“Yes?” Percival arched a brow. 

“At any point at all, did Mr. Scamander touch Gellert’s wand?”

 

“That’s enough,” said Healer Bernard suddenly. “You can take your interview outside. Our patient needs quiet to recover, and he certainly does not need more poking and prodding.”

Dumbledore’s eyes did not leave Percival’s face. Still, Percival did not answer.

“We will finish this conversation another time, then,” Albus said, his eyes narrowing. “Farewell, Mr. Graves.”

He conjured a bunch of Delphiniums from his wand and put them into the water pitcher on a bedside cabinet.

“A speedy recovery, Newt,” he said quietly, and swept out.

Graves sighed, and thanked Healer Bernard, and settled into a chair beside Newt’s cot.

His Occlumency felt shoddy after speaking with Dumbledore, whose magical sensitivity and Legilimency were intimidating. Precise control of his mind had always come naturally to Graves. He thrived on discipline. He had known no other life: the Graves family values, House Wampus at Ilvermorny, the Auror Academy and then Congress regulations had strictly delineated routines, all underpinned by order and control. This had turned out to be a downfall, however, when Grindelwald infiltrated his too-predictable life. And Percival did not repeat his mistakes; he let a select few people in, now, Queenie being the foremost example. Theseus and Seraphina had been a great help in hunting Grindelwald and in reassuring Percival that he was up to his old job, the past year, when he was sure he must retire as gracefully as possible for a laughingstock of a director. He felt unsure of himself, still, even as his magic felt restored.

But these thoughts fell away as Percival listened to Newt’s slow breathing. He closed his eyes and matched the rhythm of his breaths to it, calming his thoughts. Even in unconsciousness, the younger Scamander was proving surprisingly agreeable. Percival took out and expanded the magically-miniaturized reports of the break-ins from the previous night, and began to read. If Newt couldn’t answer his questions yet, perhaps he would find some pattern here, some hint of what Grindelwald was planning for the continent.

 


	12. Death and Her Friends, Pt 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a little something to tide you over <3
> 
> been rough, hasn't it? in RL and for Newt. Here we get back to Newt and begin to see why his mind was mysteriously shielded in the previous chapters. We also begin to see some consequences of the trauma he experienced--those won't go away on their own.
> 
> Ta, as always, for the comments. They are and you are the loveliest. Be well 'til next time!
> 
> PS (these characters were a joy to write. There's a reason I made them look a certain way, too, I'm sure you will see)

**Chapter 12: Death and Her Friends, Pt 2**

He was walking along a desolate and winding road. This was not altogether unusual. But his hands were empty of his suitcase, and this caused Newt to stop and peer about. The road behind him disappeared into fog. The road before him wound on, out of sight, beyond a dark wood. There was the sound of rushing water up ahead. The sides of the road vanished into a deep green undergrowth and what looked like vines of Devil’s Snare in the shady thorns and leaves.

He was wearing his scuffed boots and blue coat, though the cold fog threatened to creep further into his marrow. He was chilled and worried for his case, or rather, for the contents of his case. A breeze stirred the dust upon the road, and swirled the fog behind him. It smelled of juniper and pine, of decaying leaves and murky puddles and unfamiliar mosses.

Newt walked on. He rounded the bend in the road and came to the foot of a grand stone bridge that arched over a wide, flowing river. The bridge was overgrown with white and green lichen. The river burbled over black stones. A long-dead, crooked tree stood on the bank of the river, apart from the forest and near the foot of the stone bridge. There was no rail.

Newt stepped forward, his boot inches from the bridge. And then he heard voices from the other side of the river. 

“…earned its loyalty properly,” said a deep voice. There was something aggressive in the tone.

“Nor has he felt loss deeply, as one must do to comprehend such concepts,” said a second voice. It felt condescending. “One has to put the individual before the concept—he has it all backwards, the fool.”

“It’s not him,” said a third voice. It was softer and somehow more mellifluous than the first two.

“Who’s there, then?” said the first voice, sounding combative. “Answer at once!”

“I’m Newt, uh, Newt Scamander,” said Newt. “I don’t suppose you could tell me where we are?”

“You ought to be more concerned about where you aren’t,” sneered the second voice.

“I’m glad to meet you,” said the third voice. “Please excuse my brothers. They are a little bitter. We were expecting someone else, someone who knew what he was doing. It seems you’ve been cursed by a very unusual wand—am I right?”

The speaker emerged from the mist on the bridge as he spoke. It was a wizard some years younger than Newt, with reddish brown hair and bright green eyes. He wore old-fashioned robes, and his cloak shimmered strangely in the light—a bit like Dougal’s fur, when he was visible.

“There was a wand,” Newt said, slowly, “A battle. Grindelwald was torturing Graves. I disarmed him and tried to undo some damage. But he caught up to me…” Newt paused, assaulted by memories. His gaze shuttered and went blank, his heart beating madly in his ears…

When his vision cleared, he realized that he was doubled over at the sudden nausea roiling in his stomach, that he had scrunched his eyes closed. The kind-voiced young wizard put a hand on his shoulder for just a moment, and miraculously, Newt’s head cleared. The darkness eating away at the edges of his vision, the ice infecting his lungs and the panic clutching his chest all lessened and ebbed away. He no longer felt like vomiting. Newt straightened, and looked up at the younger wizard with unmasked wonder and gratitude as he gained control over his breathing. It felt as though he had chased Horace down in a department store.

“He marked you,” said the second voice, and a man wearing a traveling robe with a ruff collar and an embroidered mantle stepped out onto the bridge from the fog. He resembled his brother, though his hair was darker, his manner haughtier, and his nose crooked. His eyes looked haunted, and Newt was momentarily reminded of Graves.

“Easy, Cadmus,” said the youngest brother. “He’s been through much.”

“Perhaps,” said Cadmus, “But haven’t we all? Besides, he should know. It’s why he’s here.”

“ _This_ is why he’s here,” said the first voice, and Newt found himself on the other end of Grindelwald’s wand. Except the man holding it was not Grindelwald, and instead of white, the wand was made of a dark wood.

But it was the same wand. Newt was sure of this. His knees felt weak, and he flinched despite himself. He stepped back once, twice. Something grabbed his ankle, and a thick vine began to twist up his leg, but the owner of the wand blasted it with light, and the plant retreated.

Newt stumbled forward and gasped for breath.

“Watch yourself, now,” said the eldest brother. “This is death’s domain, and one wrong step can prove fatal.”

“Death’s domain?” Newt said, staring at the three brothers. “Then you must be..." he trailed off.

“Antioch,” said the wielder of the wand. He was the eldest, burly and confident. Newt noticed a grisly scar on his neck. “And we are as dead as dead can be.”

“Cadmus,” sniffed the second brother. Newt saw that he clutched a stone in his hand, black as a Thestral’s mane. “And we are neither living nor dead.”

“Ignotus,” said the kindlier, younger brother. “It’s good to meet you. You aren’t dead, despite what my brothers might suggest.”

Newt shook his head, and ran a hand over his eyes.

“This is a waste of time,” said Cadmus, and dissolved into the mist. Newt stared at where he had stood just seconds ago.

“Farewell,” said Antioch, following the middle brother. There was no _crack_ of Disapparition.

Newt and Ignotus were left alone at the foot of the bridge. To Newt’s surprise, Ignotus broke into a smile.

“Finally, I thought they would never get bored and leave!” he said, clapping Newt on the shoulder once more. “Sorry about them. I’m afraid they died young, and never learned any better.”

“But how is it that you look younger than them,” Newt said, frowning. “Mr. Peverell?”

“Ah, I knew you would remember your history! Or has it become myth by now?” said Ignotus, smiling. He had dimples, and a sprinkling of freckles across his cheeks. He led Newt up the bridge. They paused at the highest point, and watched the water rushing over the dark, smooth pebbles below. The river was deceptively clear for the speed and depth of the current.

“I died later, true, but this is how they always saw me. And who am I to disagree? Besides, this way I’m still the youngest. I did miss the sprightliness, the lightness of youth. But that’s enough about me, I think.”

“But how can I be here, speaking with you, if Grindelwald didn’t kill me?” said Newt, feeling rather disconsolate. “I should have known that his reading me poetry was a bad sign.”

“Generally it’s a gesture of courtship or favor, but I suppose certain poetry could be threatening. A promise, a riddle, meant to intrigue and therefore invite you to play a long game,” mused Ignotus. “As to your question… it’s remarkable, really. When those in possession of the Deathly Hallows die, we might commune with them. Your case is different,” Ignotus forestalled Newt’s question. “You were cursed by one of the Hallows, cursed with the mark of the Hallows themselves. This has forged a unique connection between the Hallows and your very magical core. Your soul, in other words. You will carry the mark forever.”

“You say that my magical core is my soul? But what of Muggle souls? Are they so different from us?”

“Not so different,” said Ignotus. “You will know more, Newt, but not for a long time, I hope. Now, Gellert didn’t know what he was doing. He is seeking the Hallows, and all his ambition is bent on this goal. He is easily distracted, however. At every turn, he is captivated by visions of power, by his schemes of war and by his own silver tongue. The gift of Sight allows him some small measure of perspective, but this is clouded by his inflated view of himself. He meant to connect you to himself with the symbol, but the Elder wand is connected more intimately with the symbol than he is. Instead of forging a link to find you and eavesdrop upon you—yes, he finds you a formidable opponent, Newt—Gellert forged a link between you and the Hallows.”

“Grindelwald’s sign,” said Newt, staring blankly out onto the water.

“Not originally, though,” said Ignotus. “He merely appropriated the symbol, and imbued it with new meaning. Needful cruelty, triumph over death, a dream of superiority over non-magical folks for the ‘Greater Good.’ Ravings of a power-mad tyrant, but hardly the original meaning.”

“What, then, was the original meaning?” Newt asked.

“There are countless theories, but I like to think it has to do with humility,” said Ignotus, and to Newt’s surprise, he blushed. “All those objects together still couldn’t triumph over death. Not directly. But she is not so bad, when you get to know her. She becomes…an old friend,” Ignotus trailed off, a smile playing on his lips.

“Death is female in Eastern cultures,” Newt recalled. “But what does this link to the Hallows mean?”

“This link means,” Ignotus shrugged. “that we might commune. Temporarily, Newt, I meant it when I said you were not dead. You will awake once your body heals. I assume Gellert was unkind in your encounter.”

“I am not a master of the Hallows,” Newt said, gazing out at the river. “But I am somehow connected to them. Do you know the nature of this connection? You created the Hallows. Or, at least, you were given them?”

“We are the imprints of the wizards upon the Hallows. When you put all of yourself into the creation or the keeping of a magical object, you leave a part of yourself behind,” Ignotus shrugged. “Not a fragment, but a shadow. As for you, Newt: no, you are not the master of the Hallows. But you are worthy, I daresay.”

Newt turned to him in astonishment, and Ignotus shot him a fleeting smile.

“My first suggestion to you, Mr. Newt, Newt Scamander,” said Ignotus, his teasing tone melting into one of sobriety, “Is that you learn Occlumency. This will make our communication much simpler. My second suggestion is that you find trustworthy allies in your struggle against Gellert. He’s taken a shine to you, and that’s bad luck. You’ve no good way of hiding like I do, so you need to be resourceful. Allies are one of the finest resources a wizard can have. Friends are even better. My final suggestion, for today, is that you wake up rested, and drink some tea. You’re going to need it. We will meet again.”

“Wait, please,” Newt said, as Ignotus vanished into mist. Newt was left standing on the bridge alone.

The water flowed on below.

Newt glanced up at the sky. It was grey, but a sliver of blue was visible up ahead.

He walked on, and crossed the river. The landscape changed as he walked: a lonely figure in an empty land. The sky began to lighten. The Devil’s Snare gave way to sand, then sagebrush, and finally wild grasses. Trees began to dot the savannah, and Newt recognized the telltale shuffle and pop of Diricrawls in the tall grass.

He breathed in the scent of his memory, and concentrated on the landscape as it formed around him. The grass swayed in a breeze that carried the smell of oranges. There was a whiff of whiskey, and then clover and dry grass baking beneath a tropical sun. It beat down upon his head and skin, but after the coldness of the forest and the riverbank, Newt savored the heat.

There were tracks in a patch of dried and cracked mud. He knelt down to survey the tracks, and his eyes seemed to regain some life, an ember of their usual spark.


	13. I Want to Wake Up (with you)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wish me a quick recovery from this flu, and I'll write more! Up through ch. 17, at present... oh, this chapter title is taken from a Pet Shop Boys song because my creativity is a bit lacking, heh.
> 
> Percival and Newt finally get to chat a bit. This will happen again, in a few chapters. also, headcanon for niffler adoption! I picture him as a little thing when Newt first found him... well, little-er. Oh, another note: trauma. Makes characters act in unusual (seemingly OOC) ways, but will be resolved eventually. Thought I'd mention that though the tags are clear, I think.
> 
> thank you for the comments and kudos, and please keep your feedback coming <3 it's delightful and I love chatting with you! It also encourages me to write faster (though I dunno about better)

**Chapter 13:** I Want to Wake Up (with you)  
  
It was bright when Newt awoke with a gasp. He smelled flowers. The room had pastel pink walls and white, breezy curtains. He was reminded of a hostel on the Dnieper, near the place where he had first met an Ironbelly, before he began working with them.

He was in bed, his ribs and stomach were covered in bandages, and there was a cool tingling sensation on the skin of his lower back, off to one side. His chest was bare and discolored with fading bruises. Most urgently, he felt parched.

Newt glanced up to see the wizard he had not-quite known as Percival Graves, the Director of Magical Law Enforcement in New York, sitting in an armchair beside what Newt realized was a cot with Cushioning charms and hospital sheets. Newt’s hand shot out instinctively. His wand flew several inches from the bedside table and into his grasp. He breathed out slowly, instincts and adrenaline calming, as he took in Graves, who was _not_ Grindelwald…

Graves’s fingers were steeped about an empty mug, and he sat far back in the chair, as if he had been sitting there a long while. His black and white attire and mien were in stark contrast with the pastels of the hospital ward. He was stripped down to his shirtsleeves and vest, and he had been staring into his coffee cup, but had looked up at Newt’s display of wandless magic.

Newt looked more closely: Graves was unshaven, and he looked overworked. There were dark circles beneath his eyes. And yet somehow, he seemed healthier than when Newt had seen him after the reading. The haunted look in his eyes was all but gone, as was the unhealthy pallor of his skin. This Graves looked exhausted but very much in control of himself and his emotions. He also looked uncertain.

“That was no beast,” Graves said quietly.

Newt looked down to where his bare foot stuck out from beneath the blankets. He pulled it up underneath the covers, hiding the pale welts that striped the arch of his foot. He smiled uneasily.

“Was it a funny story?” asked Graves, keeping his tone neutral. 

“Not really,” Newt felt his face heat up and tried to force down a smile of unease. “A tribe thought I was stealing from them. I found the culprit and rescued him. I was just out of school…”

“How old were you?”

 “Uh, maybe fifteen? Sixteen?” Newt shrugged, gazing at the Delphiniums. His eyes mirrored their vivid blue. 

“And they bastinadoed you? Tortured a child?” Graves narrowed his eyes slightly, though his tone was even. 

“What? Oh, no, they just saw it as a punishment for stealing,” Newt said. “I mean, the soles of their feet are rougher, too. They were puzzled by my boots, I think?”

“You did not defend yourself?”

“Well, I needed to find the Niffler. I knew they’d leave me alone soon enough. No point scaring them with magic. They’d just try to exorcise it out of me, and that would be worse,” Newt began to grin again, but stopped almost at once at Graves’s expression.  
  
“You didn’t defend yourself because you didn’t want to scare the nomajes?” Graves repeated slowly.

Newt sighed and gave his wand an impatient twirl. Graves was still giving him an incredulous stare.

“ _Accio_ ,” Newt said, summoning his clothing to the foot of the cot. He sat up slowly and winced, bringing a hand to the bandages on his back.

“Where do you think you’re going?” said Percival, voice pitched low. Newt had swung his legs over the side of the cot, slowly, and was peering beneath the sheet to see if he was decent.

“You wouldn’t uh, mind giving me some privacy, would you?” said Newt, with a forced smile. He pulled on his shirtsleeves and was just about to button his shirt when Graves stood and approached him. He took Newt’s thin wrists into warm hands and Newt looked up, his expression unusually open. The unconvincing smile was gone.

“Wait,” said Percival, and Newt shivered without quite knowing why. It could have been the depth of the voice, the emotions in Graves’s eyes, or perhaps the warm grip on his forearms. Graves’s hands migrated up Newt’s arms and to his shoulders.

“Mr. Graves?” Newt said. His mouth felt very dry.

“Percival,” Percival corrected, “I’m afraid you can’t leave just yet. Theseus warned me you’d try to disappear.”

Newt opened his mouth to argue, but Graves narrowed his eyes in an impressive glare.

“You’ve been asleep for six days, now,” Percival said. “And the Healers deserve better. You will not slink away before they’ve looked you over. We have had no Auror fatalities, but dozens of injuries, of which yours are the most severe. I might add that your creatures are safe.” 

Newt closed his eyes, swallowing his protests, relieved at the news. Graves was unyielding, and his hands were warm and steady on Newt’s shoulders. The last time Newt had been held like this was after he and Theseus had dueled, concern and anger mingling and turning to shared comfort. The brothers had hugged and parted on relatively good terms. Then Grindelwald had run his hands over Newt’s back and face and hands, had peppered the magizoologist with lingering, nauseatingly gentle touches. Newt felt vaguely ill remembering it. He should have fought him off, should not have accidentally encouraged his interest…

Percival frowned when Newt leaned forward, bowing his head with a shudder, his breathing strained.

“Mr. Scamander? Newt? Here,” Percival poured the magizoologist some water from a pitcher on the bedside table, beside the Delphiniums. Newt took it and gulped it down, and Percival refilled the glass.

“Thanks,” Newt whispered. He was breathing quickly still, his pulse jumping in his bruised throat. Percival looked away.

“I’m sorry,” Percival said. The words had come out inadvertently, but he found that he meant them.

Newt raised a ponderous gaze to regard Percival from beneath his fringe.

“I’m sorry I pried,” Percival said. “That I didn’t stop Grindelwald from hurting you. And that I need to know what happened, and that it isn’t over, because now you have to relive it,” he paused, and Newt’s eyes softened to their usual bright blue.

“It’s hardly your fault,” Newt said. “You helped me keep him away from the Muggles. Grindelwald and the Knights didn’t manage to hurt any creatures, and there were no casualties. These victories are no less significant, even if they seem small.”

“I would be more inclined to agree if you had not been comatose for nearly a week,” Percival said gruffly. He turned away from Newt, who was sitting on the cot in his unbuttoned shirtsleeves and nursing his water, wand clenched tightly in hand. “A civilian turning the tide of battle with _Thestrals_ , of all creatures. Incredible.”  
  
“You said they were all fine,” Newt said. “That Adam, Eve, Eva and Pamela were unhurt? What of Theseus, was he not burned?”

“It appeared that way,” Percival went to stare out the window. “He was faking, trying to lure Grindelwald into attacking him. Needless to say it did not work… He and Queenie Goldstein have been tending to your, ah, luggage. In fact,” Percival tore a sheet of paper from a notepad on the table and scribbled something onto it. Then he tapped it with his wand, and it folded up into a bat, which flew through the crack over the door and out of sight. “Now Theseus will come barreling in here and tell you himself.”

Newt stared at Percival’s back silhouetted against the bright light and the gauzy white curtains. Then he turned to pull on his trousers, wincing when his back twinged at the movement. He threaded his arms through his vest and buttoned his shirt.

“Horace and Pickett…the Niffler and the Bowtruckle, I left them with Queenie and Jacob,” Newt said, standing up gingerly. His balance was not quite right, and he leaned sideways and found himself sitting awkwardly in the armchair Percival had vacated. The room spun and he closed his eyes, feeling weak, knowing it would soon pass.  
  
“They are all in a safe location, awaiting you and WICA, which has been rescheduled. I would like to go over the timeline of the attack, when you’re ready,” Percival said, turning back around and raising an eyebrow at Newt’s reclining posture. “Comfortable, Mr. Scamander?”

“Quite, Mr. Graves,” Newt said, waspish. He crossed his legs and let himself sink further into the chair. His weight fell on his injured back and he winced again.

Percival was frowning at him when the two Healers came in like a pair of fwoopers and began to chastise Newt for getting out of bed, and Percival for allowing this breach of protocol.

Healer Bernard helped Newt move back to the cot, scolding him the while in French. Newt averted his gaze in an effort to seem chastised, but there were lines of irritation about his eyes and mouth, and the way his gaze drifted toward the door was telling. He did not know what to do with the nutritive potions Healer Delacoeur poured for him.

“Well, go on! Drink it!” Healer Bernard said. “Your body and magic can’t heal without sustenance. Henri mixed this especially for you, based on his diagnostic spell results. You won’t get such personalized treatment across the channel, I’d wager,” she exchanged a knowing look with Healer Delacoeur.

“Right,” said Newt, looking skeptical. He downed the potion, and Percival saw his throat working, and looked away. Healer Bernard clucked approvingly. It had not felt like invading his privacy, sitting in Newt’s hospital room as he puzzled through the reports. But now Percival felt awkward, as though he might be intruding where he was not wanted.

“Now, I understand that the detective wants to talk to you, but there’s a man outside who wants to visit, too. He thinks he can help,” said Healer Delacoeur. “He left you the flowers when he visited last time.”

Newt glanced over at the Delphiniums and at Graves, whose face registered very little change.

“It’s up to you,” said Healer Delacoeur. “Usually we do not allow several visitors at once, especially since you have just woken up. But since this does concern matters of international security…”

“Right, sure,” said Newt, waving his hand tiredly. He brightened somewhat when Albus Dumbledore came into the room, carrying a briefcase.

“Newt, my boy,” Albus said, looking pleased. “Good to see you awake!”

“Hi Professor,” said Newt. “I take it you visited before?" 

“Ah, yes,” Dumbledore surveyed the Delphiniums and then turned to Newt and Graves. “They reminded me of your coat. Boldness, lightness, and levity, yes? I think we can all use some of those traits.”

“Is that what they mean?” said Newt, gazing curiously at the blue flowers. He tried to rein in the skepticism of his tone. He felt sore, and angry without reason. Despite the advice of the Healers, he was sitting up again, legs swung over the side of the cot. Percival stood nearby, and Dumbledore, in his tweed suit and black coat, looked unusually somber to his former student.

“I wonder if it’s legal to set up wards to alert you when a patient awakes,” observed Percival mildly. “It would not be in the States…”

Dumbledore shot him an amused look.

“Aurors are very particular when it comes to legalities, I know,” Dumbledore said, “But I think you will appreciate my presence, in this case. I’ve brought something of help.”

He set his briefcase on the table, and withdrew a deep basin from the narrow black case. Newt recognized an Undetectable Expansion Charm and then the Pensieve in which Dumbledore had wanted to view the incident with the Jarvey, before Newt’s expulsion. Newt had refused him access to the memory, then.

And Newt did not fancy a swim in his memories at present, either. Something of this might have shown on his face, for Dumbledore said, “Perhaps you would allow us to extract your memory of the night of the battle? This way Mr. Graves could note all the details he needs. You need not relive it, this way.”

“And I suppose you will accompany me?” said Percival, with some resignation.

“With Newt’s permission,” Dumbledore nodded. “Would you please leave us, for just a few minutes?” he asked the Healers kindly.

“We will be on just the other side of the partition,” said Healer Delacoeur. He and Healer Bernard seemed to want to observe Newt now that he had awoken, and had been running monitoring and diagnostic spells as the wizards spoke. “We have a few results to analyze. But do not strain him. The patient needs his rest!”

The Healers stepped away, and Newt, who had been feeling crowded, now felt oddly bereft.

“Is this necessary?” Newt said, “Perc-uh, Mr. Graves was there for most of it.”

“Only if you permit it,” said Percival, just as Dumbledore spoke.

“Whatever Gellert said or did is not your fault, my boy. You have nothing to be embarrassed about. And this could assist Mr. Graves and his investigation,” Dumbledore peered at Newt over his half-moon glasses, and Newt quailed.

“Right, fine,” he said, ducking his head so that his hair covered his eyes.

“Thank you,” said Dumbledore. “Shall we get it over with?” 

“You’re sure?” said Percival, looking between Newt and Dumbledore. Newt nodded, eyes locked on his hands and his wand. 

“Think back to when Gellert first made himself known to you that night, from then through the moment you arrived at this Hospital,” Dumbledore said, his voice lilting in a soothing cadence. Newt nodded, face tense and posture slouched.

Dumbledore brought his wand and touched Newt’s temple delicately, prepared to extract the memory, but Newt flinched violently away from the wandtip.

“Sorry! Sorry, sorry,” he muttered, frustrated and plaintive.

“Perhaps you could do it yourself?” said Dumbledore gently, looking between the Auror and the magizoologist.

Newt shook his head.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened,” he said. “I’m not… that is, I don’t know mind magic very well. Never had the occasion to learn. It’s rather a gap in my education, I’m afraid.”

Newt fidgeted with his sleeves. He had not raised his gaze since his eyes had widened at the proximity of the wand. Graves got the impression that Newt wanted to flee the room ever more urgently. How was it possible that someone who knew nothing about mind magic could shield so effectively in his sleep? Graves frowned, considering Newt Scamander. He looked genuinely uncomfortable and embarrassed.

“It is not standard curriculum,” Albus affirmed. “I could teach you, I suppose, but it would take time…”

“Mr. Scamander,” said Percival, holding out his wand hand to Newt. Percival’s wand was facing the Auror, turned inward in the traditional gesture of goodwill. “If you would take my hand, I think we could perform an Assisted Memory Withdrawal. I’ve done these before, you see. With children and witnesses who are not familiar with mind magic. You may push my hand away at any point if you feel you need to.”

“Oh, well, that’s really not necessary,” Newt started to say. Then he looked up at the frowning Dumbledore, and then back at Percival, who was maintaining a carefully blank expression, and he let out an aggravated sigh. “Oh, crumbs. Let’s try it, then.”

Newt cupped his hand on the outside of Percival’s. His fingers were tan and callused and long against those of the Auror. Percival let Newt guide the ebony wand to his head. Newt pressed it to his scalp; this was no gentle caress but a firm, steady pressure. Then he closed his eyes, his hand squeezing Percival’s. Percival had approached the bed and stood next to Newt’s knees, their legs brushing. 

“Now, concentrate on your reading at the bookshop,” Percival said, his voice even and flat. “How you felt when Queenie gave you Tina’s gift, when she hugged you. Hold on to that feeling. Some time passed, and you went upstairs to see Kit Marlough. You remained in the area for several hours. Grindelwald came to Rue Parcheminerie and blasted a hole in the wall. Keep Queenie’s hug in your mind. Now, what did he say first?”

Newt swallowed, his hand clenched about Percival’s, eyes screwed shut. His other hand was balling the sheets and squeezing his wand. He decided to skip the poetry reading; he did not think they would believe him.

“We went into the street, and I tried to Disapparate through his wards. He asked me to sign a copy of my book… he had my book,” Newt sounded surprised. “He said Tina was in danger from her name…and he tried to ask about Credence in a roundabout way.”

Percival contained his emotions remarkably, Dumbledore thought, as he surveyed the Auror guide the magizoologist through the beginning of the memory. A silvery vapor was condensing on the ebony wand as Newt spoke.

“Now, keep Queenie’s hug in your mind as you continue with the memory,” Percival was saying. “You can concentrate on my hand if you prefer physical grounding. I remember the battle. Where did you go when you broke the Anti-apparition ward?”

Dumbledore looked between the two wizards and wondered. Fighting for one’s life did establish strong bonds quickly, he reflected.

“I fell from the tower, and Apparated back wandlessly. I don’t… Grindelwald uh, he was using the attack on the bookshop as a diversion for some other plan. I suspected he had people searching or raiding the city because there were Muggle gendarme truck lights all over, I could see from the tower. I remember the sound… of a werewolf howling. More than one, maybe. Kit mentioned there had been sightings. I think he’s using them to terrorize the Muggles? As if werewolves didn’t have it hard enough.”

Percival’s grip on his wand had tightened, and his other hand was fisted in his pocket. His eyes were narrowed.

“He didn’t stay long after he cursed me. Not sure why he gave me, uhm, why he gave me his cloak. I rather think it was meant as an insult of some kind. Asserting control by offering comfort is a common technique for people who think they are _taming_ creatures…” Newt opened his eyes to meet an intense gaze. Graves was stony-faced, but his dark eyes were incensed. Newt stared at Graves, surprised, their hands resting on Newt’s cheek, Graves’s wand pressing on the side of Newt’s head, a cloudlet of silver floating upon its end.

Dumbledore cleared his throat. Graves stepped back, Newt’s hand falling away. He pulled the wand and memory from Newt’s dishevelled hair and deposited it into the waiting Pensieve.

“I’m sorry that was so involved,” said Dumbledore. “Shall we call in the Healers? Ah, here they are.”

Bernard and Delacoeur had emerged from behind the partition with another dose of potions, and Newt sank back into bed. He was unwilling to meet anyone’s gaze, and his face looked flushed and shiny with sweat.

“What have you been doing?” said Healer Bernard, coming up to cast another diagnostic spell. “The patient needs rest, not exercise!”

“Thank you, we will be back shortly,” Dumbledore said, taking Graves by the elbow.

Percival shook off the other wizard and nodded. He had not realized the toll the Assisted Memory Withdrawal would take on Newt, and he rather regretted his decision to try it now despite his relative success. Nor did he feel inclined to view the memory Newt had described.

“Well, we could leave this to your co-Director, Auror Goldstein, if you’re having second thoughts?” said Albus quietly.

Percival snapped his mental shields back into place quickly enough to give any intruders whiplash. Albus’s blue eyes twinkled at him behind their glasses and Percival compartmentalized his anger and suspicion, as he had done for years.

“Yes, and invite Mr. Scamander’s brother for maximum effect,” Percival deadpanned. “I rather think not. Shall we?”

The two wizards leaned over the Pensieve, and then there were gone.

***  
  
Newt struggled to swallow the potion Healer Bernard had given him. His throat felt sore again, and the medicine was viscous and slimy. He tried not to retch.

“I think a cup of tea to chase this one down,” said Healer Delacoeur. This idea was greeted with approval from the patient. The steaming tea vanished more rapidly than the potion. The aftertaste of honey soothed his throat.

“Could I bother you for another cup?” said Newt, as Healer Bernard wiped his face with a cool handkerchief, and Healer Delacoeur fussed with a crumbling encyclopedia of medicinal herbs across the room.

“Certainly, after we change your bandages,” said Healer Bernard. “Your American detective is very dedicated. He has hardly left your side for several days now. Your brother has been in and out, too. I expected him to wake you. He is very loud for an Englishman.”

“Theseus has a way of getting what he wants from bureaucratic institutions,” Newt said, leaning forward to allow Healer Bernard to take off his waistcoat and lift his shirt.

“Stay just like that for a few moments,” said the Healer, and Newt hugged his knees, ignoring the pulling ache on his back. He felt the bandages peel away.

“Come look at this, what a strange turn it’s taken,” said Healer Bernard suddenly, and Healer Delacoeur approached to survey Newt’s back. They _hmm_ ’d for some time, and Newt felt rather curious by the time the Healers deigned to explain.

“It is healing remarkably quickly for a Curse which did not respond to conventional treatment, or unconventional treatment, for that matter, just hours ago,” Healer Delacoeur said. He conjured a mirror which he held behind Newt’s back, and Healer Bernard handed Newt a compact mirror.

Newt angled the compact to see his lifted shirt, his bared back and an inflamed mark of about Pickett’s height somewhere in the region of his left kidney. It did not look grisly, nor had it quite healed. It was nestled in a halo of fading yellow bruising that radiated across his back. Scarring in dark lines was the triangle, circle and line of the Peverell family crest, of the Deathly Hallows, and of Grindelwald’s sign.

 


	14. Fleurs du Mal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think JKR will explore AD's backstory in detail, with flashbacks, but I have other stories I want to tell... so I had AD give Percival a sketch of it here instead. As for the chapter title, I couldn't resist imaging Eddie Redmayne reading Baudelaire. I think I would melt with aesthetic joy.
> 
> there's a lot of just talking in this chapter. I'm not sure if that's good or bad? but I hope you enjoy, lovelies. Thank you for leaving kudos & comments! I'm really glad you're reading, and please keep (or start!) leaving feedback, especially suggestions, thoughts, guesses <3

**Chapter 14:** Fleurs du Mal 

 

Amidst the old scars and burns littering his back, it was fresh and geometrical, but hardly unique. If it had not been for the six days of sleep, the dream, and Ignotus’ advice to learn Occlumency, Newt would have been inclined to dismiss it as a creative abuse of Severing spells and nothing more. He had freed many a branded creature from wizarding and Muggle captivity. They tended to be flighty and suspicious, and Newt always hated to see the signs of abuse on their bodies. But this was different, Newt told himself. This was just like any other scar. He had freed someone or something from Grindelwald’s magic, he had felt his _Finite Incantatum_ release magical bonds. He had been injured in the line of duty, and that was honorable. Even if it felt humiliating, even if Grindelwald had taken bizarre relish in inscribing his personal symbol like some calling card into Newt’s back… draping Newt in his cloak like one would an injured friend…

Newt shook himself out of his grim thoughts. Percival and Dumbledore were taking a long time in the Pensieve. The Healers had banished the mirrors, re-bandaged the healing wound, and insisted that Newt stay another day at least, for observation.

“But you just said I was nearly healed,” he had protested. “Besides, how can I get stronger by laying around in bed?" 

But French Healers did not listen to logic. They had provided him with a battered booklet of verse, and Newt perused Baudelaire idly to turn his thoughts away from what was fast becoming an unhealthy and habitual haunt. 

He read aloud: 

_“Envole-toi bien loin de ces miasmes morbides;_

_Va te purifier dans l'air supérieur,_

_Et bois, comme une pure et divine liqueur,_

_Le feu clair qui remplit les espaces limpides.”_

His French felt rusty, but his Healers had paused to listen, and when he glanced up, Queenie and Theseus stood in the doorway and beamed at him. There was snow in Queenie’s hair and on Theseus’s collar. It was as though reading verse had conjured his friend and brother. 

“You’re reading Baudelaire? You must be suffering from _ennui_ ,” said Theseus, reading the author from the cover. His voice rang loud in the ward.

“Newt!” Queenie all but squealed. “Thank goodness! Oh, I didn’t think to bring you flowers. Tina’s been so worried, but she’s been meeting with everyone day and night. I sent her a note, though…Oh, I’m so glad you’re awake!” 

Healer Delacoeur shrugged and beckoned Healer Bernard to vet Theseus and Queenie’s identification and visitor badges. Then Queenie and Theseus crowded around Newt, and the Healers lifted the Pensieve and carried it from the room. 

“Was that Dumbledore’s Pensieve?” said Theseus without missing a beat.

“Yes,” Newt swallowed. “He and Percival are viewing my memory of the night of the battle. I did not want to join in.”

“Good choice,” said Theseus, reaching out to pat Newt on the shoulder awkwardly.

“Look who I brought!” Queenie jumped in, and she withdrew a squeaking Pickett from her inner pocket. “It was chilly out there.”

Pickett hopped across from Queenie’s palm onto Newt’s hand, which he held out for the Bowtruckle.

“Hullo there, Pickett,” Newt muttered. “I missed you too.”

 

* * *

Percival had to struggle with his nausea when he was ejected from the Pensieve. He was not sure whether his discomfort was a result of the mechanics of the Pensieve or of its contents.

“How curious,” said Albus, sighing and tugging at his tie. He had been strangely silent throughout the memory, his eyes fixed on Grindelwald and on the white wand. “I would not have expected such behavior from either of them… Newt doesn’t realize his evasions only intrigue someone like Gellert.”

“You knew Grindelwald,” Percival said slowly. “I wonder. Do you have any idea why the darkest wizard of our age is so fixated on someone like Newt Scamander?” 

“Gellert is not altogether wrong in the parallels he observes between them. They were each brilliant and isolated in their youth due to a lack of social graces; both were expelled from school for reasons they believed, at heart, were not their fault,” Dumbledore paused. “In Newt’s case, it was a sacrifice for a friend. In Gellert’s, an insatiable hunger for the practical Dark Arts. But they trod very different paths. I am surprised Gellert persists in his recruitment. It is most unusual and misguided. I wonder if he is trying to snatch an ally he perceives is important to his enemies…if he has truly Seen something?” 

He trailed off, intertwining his fingers and twiddling his thumbs as he stared at the wall of the waiting room to the ward. The Pensieve had been unceremoniously stood in the center of the floor. Both men had stumbled upon leaving the memory to find themselves in a different physical space from the one they had left. 

“They both found a friend and confidant in you, too,” said Percival.

“That’s correct, Mr. Graves,” said Albus. “Gellert and I were close for a time, as I have already told you. We each needed a friend, I think, when he came to Godric’s Hollow where I was taking care of an unwell family member. My mother had died, and instead of embarking on my Grand Tour as I had planned upon graduation, I had to return home.”

Dumbledore sat down into an uncomfortable chair and crossed his ankles. He leaned back and smiled sadly. After a pause, he met Percival’s expectant gaze and continued. 

“I admit I was bitter; resentful that I must needs care for my siblings before myself. Gellert had no siblings—he never spoke of his parents, or family of any kind. He understood my ambitions, and shared his own with me. He showed me the grave of the Peverell brothers, right there in town. He was researching the Deathly Hallows, as he is still doing, I suspect, though it seems he has laid his hands on at least the one. His plans of wizarding domination appealed to my sense of order and to my misgivings about wizarding and Muggle society. My sister had been victimized by some young Muggles at an early age, you see,” Dumbledore glanced at Percival, who was standing and gazing steadily at the other wizard, letting him speak. “My father died in Azkaban for his vengeance. I suspect now that a similar situation happened with the boy Credence in New York…it is unbearably sad, when children fall between the cracks of society and lose faith in their own magic. We owe them better.”

Percival nodded, eyes never leaving Dumbledore.

“Her magic was sporadic, my sister, as a result of that early trauma. She needed looking after. So too did my wayward younger brother, who preferred drink and gambling to study. I did not understand him then, and I do not now, I’m afraid. He chose escapes that differed from my own, and we have not been reconciled…”

“Grindelwald’s views appealed to you, in your youth?” Percival prompted. 

“His views, maybe, but mostly he appealed to me. You must understand, I was in despair. My freedom had been cruelly teased and denied me. And suddenly there comes along a boy as brilliant and talented and ambitious as I was. Someone who understands and appreciates me. An equal in many respects, at a time I felt my talents would be wasted and my ambitions were dead. He embodied my dreams of power and order, reborn. Is it any wonder I loved him?”

Percival let the silence stretch between them delicately. He shifted his weight. He could hear Queenie and Theseus laughing from the ward, but his mind was still replaying Grindelwald’s tortures, and the laughter rang hollow in his ears. Grindelwald had always been sadistic but detached when tormenting the captured Percival. It was chilling to see the contrast in Newt’s memory.

“Loved him?” Percival echoed, after some time.

“Hmm?” said Albus, snapped out of his own thoughts. “Oh, yes. Gellert was rather beautiful, for all he symbolized to me during that time. I think he might have loved me for a time, too, but in the end his self-love was too great. I bought into his philosophy. He had a way with words, and he was very charming, very charismatic. I’m sorry for it now. But things went splendidly badly, then. My brother saw Gellert’s prejudice for what it was, and I’m afraid Gellert does not react kindly to criticism. As we have just seen… he did not hesitate to cast the Cruciatus on my brother, and we fought, the three of us, then. The results were tragic.”

Dumbledore paused again, and his eyes held none of the lighthearted twinkle which Percival had come to associate with the Professor. 

“My sister was killed in the crossfire. Gellert fled, of course. He could not afford to tangle with authorities after his expulsion and his experiments in Germany. I was left more alone than ever, to realize my mistakes."

It was again Percival’s turn to observe a pause. Much of a successful interrogation consisted of pauses, and Percival was an expert at maintaining silence: respectful, suspenseful, threatening, awkward… his suspects and informants always gave him the information he needed. The inscrutable façade of a strong Occlumency shield was invaluable here. But in this particular case was different; his rage with Grindelwald and his outrage on behalf of Newt prompted him to break the silence he would have otherwise prolonged. Instead of coaxing more information from Dumbledore, Percival did something unprecedented: he shared his theories.

“You have discussed parallels between Grindelwald and Mr. Scamander,” said Percival, “but I wonder if Grindelwald does not see parallels between you and Newt?”

Dumbledore glanced up at Graves, eyes sharp.

“The resemblance is more than superficial,” Percival pressed on, gesturing at Dumbledore. “Your build, your coloring, your gentle manner, your cavalier attitude toward the law, your sense of loyalty, your principled nature… not to mention an affinity for taking in strays.”

“Why Mr. Graves, I might have underestimated you,” said Dumbledore, with a curling, self-deprecating smile. “I think you’re flattering me.”

“Hardly,” said Percival dryly. “Merely stating facts. You are both foremost experts in your fields, both seeking to improve wizarding society in some capacity.”

“But Gellert and myself, we were rather selfish about it,” said Dumbledore quietly. “Ironically enough, Newt might be the one who deserves to succeed. Yes, I take your point. Might Gellert’s fascination be misplaced pining for me? I don’t know. I would not flatter myself so.”

“Did you think it too enticing a lure, to go to Mr. Scamander’s reading? Is this why you did not attend?” Percival pressed.

“Partly,” Dumbledore nodded, “you might say I was avoiding temptation. Yet it would behoove us to remember that Gellert likes to have fingers in many pies—is that how the Muggle expression goes? And Mr. Scamander is fascinating on his own merits, is he not?”

Dumbledore gave Percival a keen look, and Percival blinked.

“But he is unquestionably a link between us, as well as a thorn in Gellert’s side twice now, and two continents over. I think you are right to keep an eye on this interest,” Dumbledore went on, “Though I wonder now, if I had tried to influence Gellert, rather than let him influence me, if things would have been different.” 

“You think it is too late to try?” said Percival. 

“If you’ve no more questions for now, I think I will be going. You seem very capable of helping Newt take back his memory,” said Dumbledore. It seemed the discussion was over. But Percival hesitated.

“I wonder if we could not leave it there,” said Percival, after an awkward pause.

“Oh. I understand the instinct to shield him. I am afraid this is an instance of being cruel to be kind, Mr. Graves. It is better to deal with these things than to let them fester,” said Dumbledore. Percival was unmoved.

“I understand your concern,” Dumbledore repeated. “But Newt is stronger than you imagine, and he is resilient. With time, we learn to put our traumas behind us and to heal ourselves.”

Dumbledore conjured a glass vial and dipped his wand into the Pensieve. He deposited the silvery memory into the vial, capped it, and handed it to Percival. Then he waved his wand and his black briefcase zipped into the waiting room. 

As Dumbledore was packing the Pensieve away, Percival said, “Is that why you have avoided helping subdue Grindelwald? You do not wish to be reminded of your poor judgment? How much time until that trauma heals? How many innocent lives lost to Grindelwald before you are ready to face your past?”

Dumbledore did not respond at first. He sighed, picked up the briefcase, and turned to look at Percival. 

“Gellert hurt you, I know,” he said. “In that, you can understand and help Newt. Both of you survived, and this is most unusual. You can count upon Gellert thinking ahead. His plans are elaborate and he preys upon the isolation of others. But did you notice what Newt did, when he briefly possessed Gellert’s wand? Besides giving it up voluntarily, which was unprecedented…” Dumbledore shook his head slowly. “He undid the magic binding yours. He overcame Gellert’s attempt to single him out, and he _helped_ someone else. Newt had the presence of mind and the strength of will to undo an elaborate Magical Draining Curse that must have taken Grindelwald weeks to cast. His dissipating magical signature lingers on you, still. I can feel it standing in the same room with you; it is redolent of bourbon, pears, and ozone…”

“I think that’s enough,” said Percival, narrowing his eyes. He suspected that Dumbledore had just described his personal Amortentia, and rather despised this thought. “I’ll be in touch if I have more questions.”

Dumbledore nodded and swept from the room, and Percival was left holding the vial and watching the memory within it, swirling and innocuous. Percival thought of the traffickers in unicorn blood he had arrested on his first case, and suppressed a shudder. It had been a difficult case; no one had believed him, an up-and-coming Auror, when he found circumstantial evidence of unicorn blood trafficked from Europe all the way to New York. A golden Snidget had delivered the final piece of the puzzle—an incriminating letter from a Sicilian mob boss—and swooped out of the department before Percival could say Quidditch. At least, now he knew it had been a Golden Snidget. He had never seen one before, nor since. He had chased it down and caught the bird before it could freeze in the New York winter. His sister had loved the Snidget dearly. The mysterious informant had never resurfaced.

The silvery memory lapped gently at the glass of the vial. Newt’s pale face, wide-eyed and wary, lingered before Percival’s eyes. In the memory, Newt had handed back Grindelwald’s wand and extended undeserved trust to the dark wizard. Percival wondered at this seeming naïveté, and its motives. That Newt Scamander was brave, that he would suffer to protect others, was clear. Percival wanted to trust him, but the contradictions lingered in his mind.

 

Queenie was telling an animated childhood story about Horklumps when Percival walked back into the room. Pickett was perched on Newt’s shoulder, and Theseus was chatting with the Healers across the ward.

“Percival, there you are,” said Queenie. She rose when he entered, and took him by the elbow. She set Percival into the armchair by the cot and plopped herself onto the armrest at his side.

“Despite my reputation, I’m no expert at mind magic, boys,” she said, raising her eyebrows, “but it seems to me that this part should be easier?”

“Indeed,” Percival said, “I think Mr. Scamander could do it himself, with a little guidance. Would you like to do the honors, Newt?”

Newt bit his lip, and said “Right,” lifting his wand sideways into the air. Deep grooves of tooth and clawmarks in the wandwood were thrown into relief. Percival uncapped the vial and overturned it. The silvery memory spilled out and clung to the tip of Newt’s wand like foamy, gleaming seawater. Pickett peered at it and chirped.

“Now bring that up to your head and try to clear your mind. Concentrate on your breathing. Inhale… there you are,” said Percival softly, watching the memory dissolve and vanish into disheveled auburn hair. He had the strangest urge to seek it out there with his fingers, to see if any traces remained. Instead, Percival concentrated on his own Occlumency.

“Are you a natural at mind magic, like Queenie?” said Newt, opening his eyes and lowering his wand.

“I came by it the old-fashioned way,” said Percival. “Study and practice. My father taught it to me, and hired tutors when I surpassed him. Aurors must control their emotions and the thoughts and feelings they project. I was groomed for this job from an early age, and it has been exceedingly useful to appear to know more than you do. Rather terrifies criminals, I find,” Percival grinned for a moment. Queenie looked between him and Newt and beamed.

“Good news,” said Theseus from across the ward. “I’ve negotiated your release!”

“As long as you avoid strenuous activity and let that curse wound heal,” said Healer Delacoeur in softer tones, approaching from across the room. “There is no reason not to go home with your brother.”

“That’s great, Newt!” said Queenie. “We can have lunch at Kit’s. She’s been moping and feeling guilty, I think, that their wards didn’t hold.”

“Are her salamanders well?” said Newt. “I think one of them saved my life.”

“You’ll have to ask her yourself,” said Queenie, shrugging. “I haven’t seen any around her place. Horace did manage to rob a shop while you were asleep, but I caught him in the act!”

“Don’t go on,” said Percival, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Horace is the Niffler,” said Theseus helpfully. “It’s in his nature to aggravate law enforcement. Trust me, I’ve known him for years. I should mention that your assistant was worried about you. We can Floo to London this afternoon—I arranged it soon as you woke. Figured you wouldn’t want to be a sitting target.”

“How did you manage to secure my freedom, anyway? They were set on keeping me another day.”

“My infinite charms, little brother,” said Theseus, ruffling Newt’s hair. Newt grimaced. “So get dressed, and off we go!”

“We’ll wait for you outside,” said Queenie, and turned to gesture Percival out. However, Percival was staring at the window as though Petrified. “What is it, Percival?”

“Seraphina,” Percival whispered, and tore to the window, which threw itself open for him. There was a blast of cold air and a flurry of snow, and a half-frozen long-eared owl swooped into Percival’s arms. He removed the letter it was holding, and enfolded it in a hug beneath his coat as he tore open the missive. Percival’s face fell.

“What is it?” said Theseus sharply.

There was a pause as Percival scanned the letter. Queenie gasped, hand flying to her mouth, just as the Auror looked up with an inscrutable expression.

“There’s been an emergency vote,” said Percival tonelessly. “MACUSA’s under new leadership…” He looked up from the letter, eyebrows climbing. “It seems I’ve been fired.”


	15. Number 9 Slurringford Square

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some tricksy times ahead for our characters and then absolutely saccharine fluff, which I rather think we need, around ch 19-20. And then more tough times because denouement of story, etc. 
> 
> but oh, you get Credence this chapter! Credence deserves all the good things, btw. I mean so do Newt and Percival, but not yet. Credence!
> 
> Thank you for commenting, as always, and for leaving kudos! I ask you to keep 'em coming if you would be so kind -- they brighten my days and give me an addicting rush of endorphins <3

**Chapter 15:**  Number 9 Slurringford Square 

 

“What?” said Theseus and Queenie in tandem.

Percival pursed his lips and folded the letter away into a pocket. His brows seemed to slope toward his temples and he exhaled a measured breath before he spoke.

“Seraphina refused me my right to resign, and now she has been forced into an early retirement,” said Percival. His voice was hoarse, low and gravelly.

“They’re sacking you now? What reason are they giving?” said Theseus, nostrils flaring.

“What other reason do they need?” said Percival. “I knew it would be the end of my career. I just didn’t realize it would be dragged out in such an undignified manner. Seraphina said your request to visit was denied, too,” Percival looked up at Newt. “I’m sorry. Apparently there’s nothing I can do. You’ve been deemed _evasive and uncooperative_.”

Queenie giggled, breaking the tension.

“That does seem like an underhanded compliment after your last jaunt Stateside,” Theseus said.

“It’s fine,” said Newt, “I’ll see Tina here instead. How’s that owl doing?”

The owl in question was warming nicely beneath Percival’s coat. The Auror glanced down and a faint dusting of pink colored his cheekbones.

“Aw, Gravesy, that’s the sweetest thing I’ve seen you do since you saved me at the Opera,” said Theseus, clapping Percival on the back. “Percival Graves, savior of freezing owls and British Aurors!”

“It can’t fly back in this weather,” said Newt.

“Certainly not. I’ll give it to Tina to take back to New York,” said Percival brusquely. “She’s been demoted to junior Auror, so perhaps we will still have eyes on the new management. This will affect the proceedings at WICA…”

“Go, see if you can speak with Tina and find out what happened,” said Theseus.

Percival nodded at Theseus and shifted his gaze to Newt.

“Thank you for your help, Mr. Scamander,” he said.

“Thank you for yours, Mr. Graves,” Newt replied, just as somberly.

Queenie rushed out after Graves, a flutter of pink chasing the stark black and white billowing of Percival’s coat.

“Get dressed, then, and we will get going,” said Theseus, handing the blue coat to Newt, who was slowly donning his layers of waistcoat, jacket and coat.

“Have you seen my tie?” he asked Theseus.

“No, but I always have a spare,” said Theseus, fishing a black tie from his pocket. “Come on, then,” he flicked his wand and the tie floated to loop around Newt’s collar and tie itself in place. “You’re welcome, hurry it up!”

Newt stumbled after Theseus, Pickett clinging to his pocketwatch strap. He loosed the formal dark tie, and tucked it into his waistcoat. The fine fabric felt strange against the coarser wool of his suit.

“What’s the rush?” Newt said, limping slightly. Healer Delacoeur had forced a potion vial into his hand and Healer Bernard gifted him the book of verse as he left.

“Thank you!” Newt said over his shoulder, as Theseus pulled on his sleeve, and he was out of the ward and taking the stairs up instead of down. 

“I’ve arranged an international Floo transport for a short window of time up in Healer Delacoeur’s office to get us to the city,” said Theseus in an undertone. “I wanted a secure channel. Can’t be too careful right now—it was gonna be my way back either with or without you.” 

He was carrying a bundle beneath his arm, something bulky wrapped in paper. 

“What’s that?” said Newt, but Theseus said,

“Later! _Dragon Pox,_ ” Theseus whispered into the doorjamb, and they walked into a wide cabinet with windows that opened on a snowy courtyard three floors below. There was a fire crackling in the fireplace, and Theseus searched his pockets for a satchel, from which he took a handful of Floo powder and gave it to Newt.

“What’s that, then?” Newt repeated more forcefully, indicating the tin boxes Theseus had taken out of his magically-expanded pocket as he searched for his stash of Floo powder.

“I got uh, Emilia some chocolates,” Theseus said. Newt caught the stutter and took advantage.

“Not your ill brother? Why don’t you spare one?” he said, snatching a box as deftly as Horace might have done. They were fine chocolates wrapped in linen, spelled to prevent melting. “Emilia is a lucky lady,” Newt said, pocketing his bounty.

“You’re robbing her blind. Right, you first!” Theseus said into Newt’s ear, nudging him forward

Newt winced and stepped up to the fireplace. Pickett burrowed into an inner pocket of his coat and made a frightened sound.

“Number nine, Slurringford Square, London,” Newt said, articulating his words carefully. Then he opened his fist and the Floo powder stained the flames green. He stepped forward and was whisked away.

Newt stumbled through the grate of his old apartment. The fire had been lit in expectation, and the blinds were drawn to give the room a cozy glow. The shelves were full of dusty books and clay figurines of magical creatures, some of which moved and others of which were curled up in sleep. Credence was sitting on the couch before the fireplace. Perhaps he had been dozing, but he jerked awake when Newt arrived, his eyes widening. And then he smiled in relief. An old brown suitcase was lying on the coffee table in front of him. 

“Credence,” said Newt, stepping away from the fireplace to make room for his brother. “How have you been? Has everyone been behaving? I’m sorry about the delay.”

Credence stood. He was nearly as tall as Newt, now, and he took in the slightly battered magizoologist. Newt saw the look in his eyes and stepped forward for a gentle hug. The fireplace flared behind them, and Theseus skidded out, huffing and coughing.

Credence pulled back and said, “Newt, you look terrible. I’m so glad you’re here!”

“Credence did a wonderful job looking after everyone,” said Theseus, gesturing to the case on the table and brushing soot off his coat. “I thought you’d like to see them for yourself, though. I don’t know that you’ve ever been away from… hey, easy! I’m-Newt, no! _Levicorpus!_ ”

“Thee! Stop this!” Newt gasped as his brother began to lower him magically into the case.

“The healers said no strain! You weren’t listening to me!” Theseus said, gently setting his brother onto the floor of his shed and peering down into the suitcase. Credence scrambled down next, and Theseus said, “Don’t strain yourself. I’ll get us back to Kit’s, now. Come out for lunch in an hour. No exceptions or delays! Credence, look after him!”

Newt massaged his temples when Theseus closed the lid of the case. Credence was gazing at him with worry.

“Oh, no, it’s fine. He’s always been a bit loud,” said Newt.

“He likes to shout, doesn’t he?” Credence agreed.

That was when Newt heard Grindelwald’s voice saying, quite clearly, _I wonder what it would take to make you scream._ It was the same slow, savoring cadence, the same dreamy tone. His skin was buzzing, and Newt gasped a deep breath of air. Credence was staring at him, looking frightened. 

“Sorry,” Newt said hoarsely. He tried to regulate his breathing. “Uhm, let’s go visit everyone, shall we? Tell me how you managed by yourself. Did Clara give you any trouble?”

Credence spoke as they visited the habitats by turn, the beasts greeting Newt with especial friendliness after his prolonged absence. As he checked over and interacted with his creatures, Newt seemed to regain his spirits.

“Oh, I brought you something from Paris. Just a small thing… let’s see,” Newt fiddled with his pockets. He found Tina’s pen, and peeled it open from the packaging. It tucked itself neatly back into his pocket, and Newt was impressed. “Not that, just a minute,” Newt muttered. He found a silver fountain pen and put it back at once, and then a green Puffskein, which he tossed into a mossy tree-hollow, “To socialize it a little, with others of its kind,” he told Credence. “Ah!” he withdrew a parcel wrapped in linen. “Spelled not to melt,” he explained, taking off the linen to reveal a tin box depicting a pastoral scene of a shepherd and several sheep frolicking in a meadow.

“Oh!” said Credence, taking the gift with some hesitation. “It’s lovely!”

“Open it,” said Newt, gently. The idea of gifts was a novelty to Credence. Newt tried to give him little things here and there, to normalize the experience, but so far he had not succeeded.

Credence tugged open the lid to reveal neat rows of square chocolates, all in different colors and topped with pistachio, orange rind, cocoa nibs…

“I know you love drinking chocolate,” Newt said. He and Credence shared a knowing look. They both drank the stuff after a long day of tending beasts—it was Tina and Queenie’s influence. “Maybe you could try a variety and see if you find something else to your taste!” Emilia won’t miss them, he didn’t add.

“Newt,” said Credence, and it seemed he was struggling not to cry. Newt resisted the urge to apologize. He had done that often at first, only to realize that Credence was overwhelmed with emotion, and needed some time to process his feelings. “Newt, this is too much.”

“Well, you don’t have to eat them all at once,” said Newt wryly. “In fact, I would advise against it.”

Credence let out a huff of air, something between a sob and a laugh.

“Hey, hey, if you don’t like it, you definitely don’t have to eat it, Credence,” Newt began in his most soothing tones, but Credence interrupted him.

“Thank you,” Credence said quickly, and enveloped his mentor in another short hug.

“Oh, I’ve missed you too,” said Newt, patting him on the back. Pickett squeaked an affirmation and hopped onto Credence’s shoulder.

“Hey there, Pickett,” said Credence. He was still delighted by the Bowtruckle’s favor, which had taken months to earn. He had spent many spare hours gathering woodlice with pocketknife and fingernail. “I thought Horace was with you, too?”

“Ah, yes, I left him with Queenie and Jacob,” said Newt. “He hasn’t been deposited back here?”

“I must not have checked!” said Credence, alarmed.

“Let’s look now,” said Newt, wading past the Puffskein nest and gazing around. They made it to Horace’s burrow, which glinted and glittered with silver and gold. The Niffler was nowhere to be seen.

“Well, he’ll turn up,” said Newt, “Don’t worry. You did a wonderful job, everyone has been very impressed and I’m very proud of your independence and the care you’ve taken of everyone. Truly, Credence, you’ve impressed me immensely. I hope I never burden you this way again. It is rather too much for a beginner to handle such responsibility, but you came through with flying colors.”

Credence turned around so Newt could not see him blush. Newt smiled at the familiar gesture. Like gifts, praise was a new experience for Credence, but Newt tried to bestow it as often as it was earned, and it was earned often.

Someone cleared their throat from the direction of his shed, and Newt recognized Kit Marlough, who was openly staring at the habitats. Newt frowned, registering the need to recast his wards on the case.

“I was going to invite you up for lunch,” she said, “But first I owe you an apology, young man. Mr. Barebone, yes?” she turned to Credence. “Would you excuse us for just a moment? We will be right up.”

“Credence, this is Kit Marlough. She’s one of the owners of the bookshop where I gave the reading.”

“Good to meet you, ma’am,” said Credence. He seemed hesitant. 

“Go on ahead,” said Newt, “I’ll be up in a jiffy. Make sure to remind Theseus not to serve you anything with shrimp, would you? He might forget. And don’t offer him any chocolate. He has plenty.”

Credence climbed the ladder out of sight, and Kit gave Newt the kind of worried look he was starting to detest.

“I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am,” she said. “I left you vulnerable to attack. I left you sleeping in my shop, and the wards failed. There is no excuse for what happened, Mr. Scamander. I am incredibly, foolishly sorry for what happened last week.”

Newt licked his lips and let the silence stretch for several tense moments.

“Well, you put me to sleep against my will,” he said finally. “And I missed a meeting because of that. But the rest is hardly your fault now, is it?”

“Responsibility extends beyond culpability, Mr. Scamander,” said Kit, her eyes downcast. “As I believe you were trying to tell your young charge. Credence, was it? You left him alone longer than you intended. This was not your fault, but you feel guilt, yes?”

“Are you apologizing or lecturing?” said Newt shortly. He was well aware of Kit’s logic. It was the same logic that haunted him when he thought back to the Sudanese Obscurial girl. Grindelwald’s taunt rang in his ears: _you only showed her mercy, Newton_.

Newt shook his head. He was safe, in his case, and aural hallucinations were not on his list. He would re-cast the wards post haste.

“A bit of both, it seems,” Kit admitted, looking back up with amusement laced with concern. “I am sorry, Mr. Scamander.”

“I already said, don’t worry about it,” said Newt, heading past her into his shed.

“Wait, please, Mr. Scamander,” said Kit, but her voice was pleading. It was not a command.

“What?” said Newt, rather harshly. Aches and pains were making themselves known all over his body, and he did not want to keep Credence waiting. Theseus might forget about the shrimp. He could feel an oncoming headache, and the pain blooming across his back at every movement did not help matters. He felt tired, and strangely old, and he wanted to be alone, but this was not possible.

“I wanted to share some details with you, Mr. Scamander, to help pay my debt to you,” Kit said, and Newt braced for a long speech. “You are no doubt aware that dangerous times are upon us all. How we handle that danger will be the mark of the witch or wizard. I told you Grindelwald was a Seer. I tell you now that my underground network of spies, mainly House Elves, has gathered information of Grindelwald’s followers. He has been amassing a dark army. The Knights of Walpurgis are but a small faction of this force. He plans to unleash it upon Europe in another great war, this one triggered to disrupt the Muggle way of life. He has contingents on other continents, among Soviets and Tunisians, from Rome to Kyoto to New York…”

Newt exhaled slowly and sank down on a log. Kit carried on lecturing, her tone grim and the content darker.

“Your part in bringing Grindelwald to justice last time will appall his followers and appeal to those in charge of recapturing this criminal. You may be put in dangerous situations for the sake of one or another greater good, as well as for vengeance. Your creatures may be put at risk from both Aurors and followers of the Dark Lord. You will have to choose between acting the Gryffindor or the Slytherin, as you might say. You may be willing to sacrifice yourself, but what of your creatures and your friends? Your family?”

“I’m not sure why it is that people think there are only two Houses at Hogwarts. I am-I was a Hufflepuff,” Newt said. “I will not lock myself and my creatures away and leave my friends to suffer the consequences. If I can consult with the Ministers to exonerate magical creatures, to free them from the control of these fanatics or from blame, then I think it is my duty to try and do that. Theseus has been on the front lines for years. He can take care of himself.”

Kit nodded. 

“I thought you’d say as much,” she said. “But I figured dire warnings were in order anyway. Which is why I wanted to give you this,” she showed Newt the white gold pocketwatch that Horace had filched from the bookshop, and Newt had replaced.

“Oh. Uh, thank you,” said Newt.

“It’s Charmed,” said Kit. “A gift from the Order of the Golden Dawn. Your compatriot Nicolas Flamel is a founding member, as well as Wescott, and Crowe, and many wizards across other continents. Albus Dumbledore was considered and rejected after his association with Grindelwald,” Kit snickered. “He didn’t like that, let me tell you. You’re not officially admitted, but this will allow you to call upon certain resources…of course, without awareness of what these resources are, you’re going to need luck, but I think this will get you started. Yes,” Kit floundered. “I’m struggling against very old blood magic and vows of secrecy here, young man. I cannot initiate you without the consent of other members, and there’s a ceremony which bestows… oh, very well! I can’t really tell you much, but I think you shall figure it out. Yes. Keep it with you, and it will tell you more than the time.”

On this cryptic note, Kit took hold of the empty leather pocketwatch strap which Pickett frequented as a perch and attached the white gold watch to it. Newt took it and saw an engraving which had not been there before glow on the cover. The watch obtained a different cast, and morphed into rose gold. The engraving showed an ornate _NS_ and faded from view.

“There, it worked!” said Kit brightly. “And now, let us ascend to lunch, Mr. Scamander!”

Newt checked on the Swooping Evil cocoon, nestled in the jar labeled _honey_ , and then downed a painkilling potion before he haltingly followed Kit up the ladder. She was very spry, for an old lady. Newt recalled her impressive dueling skills.

Queenie, Theseus and Jacob had set the table, and Credence was already munching on a sandwich when Kit and Newt arrived.

“I told him to start, poor dear looked starving,” said Queenie, before Credence could finish chewing. “No shrimp, don’t worry!” she added.

Newt began pouring himself a cup of tea, but then Theseus asked. 

“Say, don’t you have a potion to drink?”

“Tea helps it go down,” Newt said, and reached into his pocket for the vial from Healer Delacoeur.

“Give the man a minute,” said Jacob. “He’s only just seen food for the first time in nearly a week!”

They shared a convivial lunch of roe sandwiches and fresh vegetables Kit grew in her hothouse. Credence, who had never had roe before, found the salty food strange but was too polite to comment. The brothers Scamander enjoyed the delicacy. Theseus put away enough for three.

“I’ve been meaning to ask after Horace,” Newt said, after a long discussion between Queenie and Kit on the topic of city air, fresh vegetables, and magical sunlight. Newt had enjoyed catching up with Jacob, whose bakery was thriving.

“Ah, yes, we sat him in an old treasure chest. He doesn’t seem to mind,” said Kit, waving across the room to a chest overgrown with barnacles and seaweed. Newt had thought this to be decorative.

“Yes, Wilhelmina likes deep sea diving, and occasionally she finds bullion,” said Kit. “What are you going to do? We can’t give it all away. Gives a new meaning to expensive hobbies, doesn’t she?”

“He kept sneaking off,” said Queenie apologetically. “I hope it’s okay we left him in there?”

Newt took out his wand and waved it at the chest, which creaked open. Gold coins glimmered inside. A beady eye peeked out, and then Horace was scurrying across the floor and into Newt’s lap, and tugging on his pocketwatch chain. No avail; the gifted watch refused all attempts to remove it.

“Hullo there,” said Newt. It was strange how relieved he felt, now that every creature was accounted for. “Why don’t you go back into the case, hmm?”

For once, Horace seemed to listen. He gave a last, longing glance at the pockewatch that would not budge, and trudged toward the case. Halfway there, he changed course for the treasure trunk.

Credence sprang up from his chair before Newt could rise, and grabbed several handfuls of Niffler.

“I’ve got him, please don’t worry,” he said, holding Horace securely.

“I couldn’t catch him no matter how hard I tried,” said Jacob. “You’ve got a real knack with him, Credence.”

“I’m afraid he stole from some secondhand shops, and I didn’t know how to get the items back,” said Queenie. “But I left some money behind for the nomajs.”

“We’ll take a look later,” said Newt, who did not feel up to sorting through glittery detritus. “Credence, would you put him in the case, please? I’ll be happy to pay you back, Queenie.”

But Credence was already closing the lid, having levitated the Niffler down with his Holly wand.

“That’s a fine levitation charm, young man,” said Kit. “Top form on your _swish and flick_. Hogwarts man, are you?”

“Homeschooled, actually,” said Credence shyly, looking to Newt.

“Ah,” said Kit. She sounded delighted. “Do I have the books for you!”


	16. Follies and Friends pt 1

**Chapter 16:** Follies and Friends pt 1 

Newt clutched his case with a white-knuckled grip as they navigated the Muggle underground. Theseus had offered to leave it as his place or at Kit’s, but Newt was loath to be parted from his creatures again. Credence, however, had volunteered to remain with Kit, Queenie, and Jacob. The young wizard was so rarely allowed the luxury of socializing with other humans that Newt had not hesitated in giving Credence permission to remain. With the way Credence and Kit had bonded over their passion for Transfiguration and Defense Against the Dark Arts, Newt suspected it would be a studious holiday.

Muggles packed the train on their way back from work. Newt felt uneasy in the crowd, though he felt uneasy constantly since he had woken. The wound on his back felt raw and sore as it healed, and Newt hated the feeling he had of being watched – though at the moment the culprit was standing next to him and openly trying to catch his gaze.

“What is it?” Newt said, unwilling to endure the close scrutiny any longer. He was slouched and leaning against the door, and Theseus had been very quiet on their journey so far.

“Oh, nothing,” said Theseus, but his blue-grey eyes remained clouded. He spoke quietly into the side of Newt’s head, “It’s just, I don’t understand why these types of people are showing an interest in you. Have you been disrupting the underground trade in Unicorn blood, again? I don’t want a repeat of the incident in Sicily…”

“They were slaughtering unicorns, Theseus! Shipping the blood as far as America!” Newt hissed into his brother’s ear, outraged. “But that was what, twelve years ago? Besides, you know I’ve been busy proofing my next edition. And I haven’t rescued anyone new, if that’s what you are asking after.”

“Hm,” said Theseus unhappily. “I would feel better about all this if you were far away, and I could proceed with my investigation without worrying for your life. It feels very personal, somehow, when you’re in the middle of it. Makes things much more complicated.”

“You think Grindelwald targeted me because I’m your brother?” said Newt, taken aback by this line of thinking.

“I’m sure it doesn’t help,” sighed Theseus. “I want you back in England, or off the map completely – hiding. Maybe with Muggles somewhere? Have you considered New Zealand?”

“We’ve spoken of this before,” Newt whispered, and the pent-up frustration in his voice became resigned weariness. “I have not changed my mind.”

“We’ll see,” said Theseus, glowering at a young woman with an infant in her arms. She stepped further down the train car, away from the glaring red-head in the leather jacket.

They fell silent for several stops.

“This is us,” said Theseus, pulling Newt’s sleeve as he had when they were children. They disembarked the train with a crowd of commuters, and joined a steady stream of Parisian Muggles across the plaza of the Notre-Dame-De-Lorette. The 9th arrondissement bustled with foot traffic, and Newt wondered briefly why Theseus had elected to take the ten-minute train ride when the brothers could have easily walked. Theseus had tried to insist they switch coats, too, but then he’d seen the baby Acromantula on Newt’s coat sleeve and thought better of it. Newt had deposited Archie into the dense undergrowth of the deciduous forest habitat with a lopsided grin. He did not care for Theseus’s leather jacket. 

All Kit and Willie had talked about over dinner had been Picasso, Mondrian, Matisse and Dali. They had debated the merits of Surrealism and the Dada movements in art, and then moved on to philosophy and the essays of “dear Jean-Paul” and “the lovely, glum fellow, Albert,” among others. Newt was not well versed in contemporary French culture, though he understood that it was booming, that Paris was an international center of American and Western thought. At least, so Queenie claimed. He had listened as she discussed how they had seen Jazz based off of The Blind Pig’s repertoire, played in Parisian venues. Famous Americans seemed to be swarming Paris, too. American writers in cafes and dancers in cabarets, Soviet ballerinas and Spanish artists; the continent was a hodgepodge of international culture and art. The conversation blended the arts and cultures and Newt lost the thread of it and excused himself to check on his creatures, though it was really to rest his eyes and ears in the quiet night of the Mooncalf habitat. Theseus had dragged him forth, then, to attend “an important meeting” to which they had to take the Muggle underground train.

They looped twice around the block before Newt realized they were walking in circles, or rather, rectangles.

“Lose any tails,” said Theseus, though to Newt it seemed more ritualistic. As though his brother wanted to scout the area. It felt good to move after nearly a week of a lay in, thought Newt, but his body felt sore and easily tired. They paused outside the ornate, Art Deco façade to the Folies Bergère for a third and final time. “Can you believe they just renovated it last year?”  
  
The golden relief set into the white stone of the façade towered above the row of wood and glass-paned, gold-limned doors to the Cabaret. The image depicted an androgynous dancer, all elongated curves against a background of waves and zigzagging steps and winding swirls.

“Used to be an opera,” said Theseus, following Newt’s gaze, which lingered on the golden dancer. “Then a music hall, and now a place to see exotic dancers and hear the best blues outside of America.”

“You said we were going to a meeting,” said Newt, turning a skeptical gaze on Theseus. “What are we doing here?”

“There’s a show here tonight, lots of Muggles coming. The American expat, Josephine Baker, is supposed to dance. Mostly naked, I hear. She’s a beautiful girl, a singer and dancer,” Theseus said, shooting Newt a sidelong glance. “Going to be a big crowd.”

“I don’t much care for crowds,” said Newt, frowning. “Nor naked dancers.”

“There’s my bookworm brother,” Theseus gave a thin smile and gestured at the cabaret. “Come on!” 

Newt sighed and followed his brother through one of the many doors into the Folies Bergere.

“She’s going to dance in a skirt made of bananas. A _danse sauvage_ , just like they do in Africa,” Theseus said. It seemed he was having difficulty restraining himself.

“I encountered no such thing upon my travels to that continent, though the cultures were all very different…” Newt began, but Theseus cut him off.

“Oh, it’s the spirit of the thing, you know. No one cares a fig about what the _actual_ natives are like. It’s exotic, and sensual, and extravagant.”

Theseus gestured around the foyer, which was all of those things. Newt checked the latch on his case. Horace would have died of joy between the glass chandeliers and the sparkling glasses of champagne, bottles of it in shiny golden ice-buckets, the gleaming jewelry on the dancers and the candelabras dripping with crystals. The visiting Parisians were dressed in glittering finery, too, their shoe buckles polished and light sliding across pearl earrings and silver watch chains. Thousands of tiny beads glinted on bodices that hugged the curves of glamorous women. The entire sparkling procession heaved, breathed, spoke, and stared, milling about the foyer and waiting for the theater-doors to open. When Newt looked at the tiles below his feet, his head spinning, he found no relief: elaborate swirls and glittering veins of mica shone from within the marble floor.

Theseus glanced at Newt, and pulled his sleeve. There was a side-door, and a dark stairway, and they were out of the crowd. Theseus was rushing Newt along, tugging on his sleeve, and Newt squinted and followed. It was claustrophobic, dark and cramped. Newt and Theseus had to bend down to avoid their heads scraping the ceiling. Theseus jerked his hand away with a wince, feeling something flutter inside Newt's coat-sleeve.

“Your old friend, the Swooping Evil,” Newt said.

“It was that Acromantula, wasn’t it?” Theseus said over his shoulder, pulling a face which Newt couldn’t see in the gloom. 

At last, they emerged onto a landing before a pair of ornately carved wooden doors. The knocker was an elaborate flower with a pair of stamens extending down to a weighted bronze butterfly.

Theseus tapped this with his wand, whispering something to it. It fluttered to life, revealing a hidden peephole from which a brown eye was peering. Newt registered an unusual depth within it. It was a curious feeling that passed quickly, like the gaze.

“Come on, then! I’ve got clearance,” said Theseus, waving his Ministerial Auror badge. The gaze returned to Theseus, blinked, and the door opened. Theseus rushed immediately off to speak with other members of the British Ministry in the room, which was crowded and buzzed with conversation. Newt was left standing by the door, facing the owner of the gaze.

A wizard that Newt recognized from the portrait on Kit’s wall stepped away from the door. He was not very tall, and slight of frame, but there was a certain restrained, calm grace to his movements that spoke of honed talent. Newt did not, as a rule, seek out the magical signatures of others; he valued his privacy and tried to afford others the same courtesy. But this wizard’s magical signature was more tied to his physical presence, was almost akin to a magical creature’s in nature, and therefore exactly the sort of magical undercurrent which Newt had trained himself to pick up on. It was potent, graceful, fluid, like a dancing flame, tangy like copper and earthy like a mulled wine. It was the magical signature of a powerful wizard. 

Newt bit his lip, embarrassed to have sensed so much, gazing at the man’s shoes. He did not see the man smile before he introduced himself.

“Hello there. I was in town for your reading, though I did not stay afterwards. It was a very good reading, oui,” he said. His words held the faintest French accent. “A bestiary is just what we’ve needed for centuries. I was just telling Kit Marlough, a few decades ago, and she didn’t think it was possible. No one cares enough, she said! Well, I am happy you have proved her wrong in her lifetime!”

Newt glanced up at him to find the brown gaze surveying him warmly. He looked back to his boots.

“It’s an honor to meet the famous Nicolas Flamel,” Newt said. His ears were turning red. “I did not expect to see you minding the door.”

“Albus speaks highly of you, and I certainly see why after perusing your book, young man,” Flamel continued. “He was just telling me about you the other year. I think it was? Ah, speak of the devil!”

He beamed as Dumbledore approached. Though also lean, Dumbledore was taller than Flamel, and as the two friends stood side-by-side, Newt tried not to be star-struck by the greatest alchemists of the age. Flamel's robes were somewhat similar to those of Cadmus, and Newt suddenly wondered if Flamel had known the brothers Peverell.

“Your brother is hurrying proceedings along with his usual celerity,” said Dumbledore, twinkling at Newt. “I see you’ve met the more patient of the Scamander brothers already, Nicolas.”

“Young men will want to hurry things along,” said Nicolas. “They don’t appreciate the luxury of leisure. All they see of time is its inevitability.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you, Nicolas," Albus began, "I wonder if you might recall the most unusual dream you told me about, the one you had after drawing the equation for the philosopher’s stone upon your skin,” said Albus, raising his eyebrows at Nicolas and shooting Newt a sidelong look. “This young man has been subject to a rather similar phenomenon, I think—a cursed symbol was carved into his skin. A symbol imbued with centuries-old magic.”

Nicolas brought his gloved hands to his mustache, stroking it thoughtfully.

“Why would you go and do something so permanent?” said Nicolas mildly. Newt averted his gaze and swallowed.

“Gellert,” said Dumbledore succinctly.

“Ah,” said Nicolas. “I see. I’m sorry… I was not aware of having done it, myself. It so happened that I had been writing deep into the night, working out the final steps for the creation of the philosopher’s stone,” he gave a thin smile. “This was several centuries ago now, so you’ll forgive my memory being hazy, I hope? I passed out at some point in the night, and had a very strange dream. When I awoke, the completed formula had been written on my hand, in my own handwriting. I was able to replicate the experience and commune with the, _ah,_ magical imprint of the previous creator of the stone. Oh yes, I am not the first such alchemist to dream of eternal life,” Flamel nodded to himself, “but one can only delay, and never really conquer death. At any rate, I realized that writing the symbol upon myself created a connection between my magic and that of the stone’s…ah, magical history? I suppose one would call it.”

Newt was startled by how similar Flamel’s words were to those of Ignotus, in his dream. He found himself believing the alchemist, despite his reservations. After a pause in which both Flamel and Newt were lost in thought, Albus spoke.

“It is my belief that the power of words, formulas or symbols, inscribed on skin, can serve as a sort of incantation in lieu of a spell, or a curse. That they might even overpower any other intended spells cast upon their drawing.”

“It is something like a bond, in nature,” said Nicolas, nodding. “Or rather, a bridge? Yes, it bridges the gap between the symbol and the magic contained in the symbol, to put it as plainly as possible.”

“Where does this underlying magic come from?” said Newt, glancing up from below his fringe, eyes bright and curious.

“Magic can be released using words, but there is some of it contained within the words themselves, within symbols as well as within runes. Magic can be found in music and in poetry, in dreams and in humor, in art or moments of deep emotion,” said Dumbledore wistfully. Nicolas grinned brightly at him.

“Well said!” said Nicolas. “Though a bit metaphysical for my taste. But such is the topic at hand, n’est-ce pas? And symbols hold power. My friend Ferdinand, perhaps you’ve heard of him? He is known for his alchemy, but he’s written some Muggle linguistic treatises, too. He wrote about the signifier and the signified, the duality of meaning and symbol. This is what magic might bridge, if our minds are open and the potential is present.”

“We can’t all be creating an endless supply of gold,” said Dumbledore, renewing what appeared to be an old discussion. At that moment, however, their conversation was interrupted by the ringing of several bells. These were floating in midair above a broad, long wooden table situated at the center of the room.

“Please conjure up a chair and take a seat,” said a voice into a Sonorus charm in English, and repeated its instructions in French and German. There was a great commotion as the attendees of WICA conjured and levitated chairs, stools, and armchairs and arranged themselves around the great table, waiting for the conference to finally begin.

  


	17. The New Management

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a double update for you, to celebrate the end of quarter, from me <3
> 
> I'm working on ch21 so I suppose you should expect weekly-ish updates from here on out, presuming I'm writing at a decent pace? This may be sped up by a diet of comments, potentially
> 
> ....and, who's angry at politicians? no one's angry at politicians, where would you get that idea? what are you talkin about from this chapter? what? what?

**Chapter 17:** The New Management

 

Newt had startled at hearing the amplification of the Sonorus. He settled into a chair which Dumbledore conjured for him, beside his former Professor and Flamel. The chaos resolved, with much scraping of chair legs across the floor and some pushing and shoving.

A wizard wearing fine black robes and a somber expression on a wrinkled face cleared his throat.

“Girande, the French Minister,” Dumbledore whispered to Newt. Neither Kit nor Willie were present at the conference, Newt noticed. Tina and Percival ducked through the door at the last minute, and pulled up seats on the far side of the table. Graves looked harried, and Tina was frowning, but she caught Newt’s eye and nodded hello.

“Welcome, Mesdames and Messieurs, it is my honor to open the three-hundred seventh convening of the WICA,” said Girande in a high, hoarse voice. “There has been some reshuffling in the wake of the chaos of last week’s failed meeting. I also welcome my colleagues from across the channel, Minister Fawley,” Girande nodded at the British Minister for Magic, “And the newly-elected President Ira Kneedander, and his Director of Magical Law Enforcement Redford Grimsditch, we’re pleased you could make the long journey from New York on such short notice, and congratulations on your recent victory in the surprise election,” Girande gave an emotionless smile. The wizards in question nodded and responded.

“Thank you for your kind words, Minister Girande,” said Kneedander. “We are pleased to represent the true interest of the American people and to participate in WICA despite the scheduling snafus of last week.”

Newt cast a curious glance at Seraphina Picquery’s replacement. Ira Kneedander was a rotund wizard with a balding pate. He had once been good-looking, but his charm was waning. His voice was confident, and his long black mustaches reminded Newt of Hercule Poirot (Muggle detective fiction was a vice he indulged frequently upon long travels, often reading by campfire or wandlight). But Kneedander’s cold brown gaze lacked the keen intelligence Newt imagined the fictional detective to possess. Kneedander’s eyes were somehow greedy, secretive, and fixed on Girande. Newt looked to his American friends; Percival sat and stared at Grimsditch, his gaze even but his hands and shoulders tense. Tina was also looking at the delegation with evident dislike.

Grimsditch was harder to read. Like Kneedander, he too had dark hair and dark eyes and pale skin, but he had not lost his looks. His dark hair curled very slightly below his ears, and a scar across his eyebrow only accentuated what was otherwise a symmetrical and classically handsome face. This made the unpleasant impression he struck even more unusual. Something in the lines of his face alarmed Newt, upon first glance. Grimsditch’s eyes wandered down the table, rested a second on Newt’s and slid on over Dumbledore, Flamel, and back to Girande. His thin lips quirked and smoothed out again. He met Percival’s gaze without changing his expression, though his eyes grew sharper.

“I cede the floor to Minister Fawley of Great Britain,” Girande concluded, and Newt realized that he had tuned out the French Minister’s address.

“Thank you, Minister Girande,” said Fawley, springing up with characteristic ebullience. “It is good to be back in Paris! One never gets tired of the Folies Bergere, either, am I right?” he peered around the room. Newt was startled to notice that there were only two women, Tina and a young blonde witch with striking blue eyes. Several of the men chuckled at Fawley’s remark. “But we are here to discuss what many are calling the growing threat of Grindelwald. However, as Minister Girande has said, there are more pressing threats to address. I sympathize with his werewolf problem, and I wish your Aurors the best of luck in exterminating the rogue beasts.”

Newt felt a jolt in his stomach, a bit like a Portkey. He sat on his hands and grit his teeth. Feeling eyes on him, he cast a swift glance up—Flamel looked sympathetic, and Percival was giving him a warning look that was slightly pained. Newt read it easily, and responded by relaxing his frown. He was intending to keep quiet, he did not need to be warned. Theseus was scribbling in his leather-bound notebook. Newt looked back to Girande, tall, animated, with his scarlet waistcoat and red and blue paisley scarf swinging as he gestured and spoke.

“At any rate, our great nation wants to maintain peace as much as I am sure your people do,” Fawley concluded graciously. He raised his eyebrows and waved forward Kneedander, who had risen from his seat to speak. However, it was Grimsditch who spoke first from where he sat back in his chair, legs crossed casually, elbow on the table, head perched on his fist.

“The American people have spoken, and they prefer to avoid war. We were elected on this platform because we believe that rumors of Grindelwald’s activity have been exaggerated, and our policy reflects this,” said Grimsditch. His voice was gravelly low, confident, and bored. He looked up to Kneedander, who quirked a brow at him and proceeded.

“Thank you, Redford, that is just so. And thank you, Minister Fawley,” said the new President of MACUSA. “I understand that there was an attack by a terrorist organization upon the Opera, and Minister Girande seemed to suggest that he suspects these Knights of Walpurgis are working in league with the dreadful beasts plaguing your city. In any case, I would like to offer the Minister the assistance of my Director of Magical Law Enforcement and a very talented beast hunter, Mr. Grimsditch. He had been working very effectively to enforce Rappaport’s law—perhaps you’ve heard of our methods?—and to curtail nomaj sightings of beasts, in particular. His team has amassed quite the collection of trophies. I think we might open his office as a taxidermy museum. And I hazard that he would enjoy hunting something more challenging than a Puffskein, eh?” Kneedander shot Grimsditch a smile.

“We would appreciate your help,” Girande nodded, “with our efforts to uphold the International Statute of Secrecy, of course.”

“You don’t have to slaughter werewolves to uphold the Statute,” said a heated voice. Newt realized it was his own, that he had stood up without noticing and was gazing steadily at Minister Girande. Girande looked from Newt’s splayed fingers, palm planted firmly on the table up to his bright and earnest eyes, and the French Minister furrowed his brow.

“Ah, Mr. Scamander,” said Minister Fawley, lounging back in his chair. “I was wondering when you would deign to contribute to our discussion. Mr. Scamander has revolutionary views on beasts, you see,” he told the room. “He’s written an extermination guide. No doubt you would prefer to be the expert consultant?”

Newt flushed unpleasantly, self-consciousness rounding his shoulders.

“It’s not an extermination guide,” said Grimsditch, suddenly. “It’s a very informative and educational book on how _wonderful_ these beasts are in their natural habitat.”

Newt was flummoxed by this unexpected defense, though he rather despised the sardonic tone which belied the content. Grimsditch met his wide eyes with a strange smile.

“Mr. Scamander’s book is exemplary, as is his character,” said Tina, just as Dumbledore rose to speak. He nodded at her and she swallowed nervously.

Newt felt buoyed by Dumbledore and Flamel even before his former Professor opened his mouth. The twinkling blue and steady brown gazes were a grounding counterpoint to the hostile eyes around the table.

“This is precisely what Grindelwald uses to sow fear and division between us,” said Dumbledore slowly, aware of the effect his speech was having. Fawley was not the only one capable of theatrics. “…our ignorance. Mr. Scamander’s book can remedy some of this ignorance when it comes to magical beasts. It is imperative that we resist the temptation to scapegoat the messengers. Grindelwald was independently witnessed by numerous witches and wizards on the continent. He battled several of those present here only last week at the Rue Parcheminerie. You cannot perceive this as mere inconvenience and respond with denial. You must act before the threat becomes greater. United, decisive action is called for.”

Flamel nodded along to Dumbledore’s words, but Fawley and Girande both looked uncomfortable. Grimsditch was watching Dumbledore carefully, while Kneedander was openly scoffing.

“Who are these so-called witnesses alleging that they fought Grindelwald, then, Mr. Dumbledore?” said Fawley.

“I am,” said Newt quietly, straightening his back. He loathed the attention, but he would not keep silent.

“I was there with many of your Aurors,” said Percival, his voice cold and clipped and formal. But when he met Newt’s gaze, his eyes were reassuring.

“And I,” said Theseus, rising from his spot at the table.

There was a short, awkward silence which was broken by slow clapping. Graves turned inquisitively toward Kneedander, all cool politeness.

“Bravo,” said Seraphina Picquery’s replacement. “This alleged sighting is most convincing. A Hogwarts drop-out claiming to have fought the most dangerous criminal of the age—and he stands here, unscathed! Such unrecognized talent! And his brother standing up for him.”  
  
“I can understand nepotism, but I wonder at the agenda of these other provocateurs,” said Grimsditch.

“Do you require proof, Mr. President? Very good, you shall have it,” said Graves, hitching up his sleeve to reveal an inflamed scar from a Stinging Hex across the back of his hand. “My memories, or my account given with Veritaserum should suffice for an account independently corroborated, under Section 27B under _Acts of Aggression_ from the Self-defense decree of 1883." 

“The words of one delinquent wizard are hardly sufficient… what he chooses to carve into his own flesh is his own business, of course,” said Grimsditch, and Percival’s impassive expression faltered. A vein in his jaw jumped.

“If the President of MACUSA doesn’t uphold our laws, then who will?” said Tina, her voice equal parts indignant and small.

“You will find that our constituents have made their wishes clear in the latest vote,” said Kneedander primly.

“This is not the time or place for national conflict,” said Grimsditch smoothly. “I recognize this is an international conference. But if I may finish making one point?” He did not wait for permission. “I was saying, what could the motive of these provocateurs be? We know Mr. Newton Scamander covets a revolution—joining his with that of Grindelwald requires no stretch of the imagination.”

It was Newt’s turn to lose color. He brought a hand up to his lapel to rein in Pickett, who seemed ready to jump Grimsditch. He felt Dumbledore’s hand on his shoulder and shrugged it off.

“Very noble of Theseus Scamander to risk his career to save little Newton, but quite unnecessary. As for Mr. Graves,” Grimsditch seemed to relish the topic. His low voice all but purred Percival’s name, “his paltry attempts to redeem his career will always be overshadowed by his failure to fight off, let alone to apprehend, the world’s most wanted criminal. I am surprised he did not resign sooner and distance himself from our department, if only to avoid disgracing the name of MACUSA. This _alleged_ assault is clearly politically motivated fabrication.”

“But that is all small fry compared to Mr. Albus Dumbledore’s drawing attention to his former associate-turned-nemesis. Does Mr. Dumbledore covet a political position, perhaps?” Kneedander spoke up in oily tones.

“Mr. Hector Podmore and myself already hold the position of Mugwump for Britain on the International Confederation of Wizards,” said Dumbledore mildly, “and I write for _Transfiguration Today_ , and I teach Transfiguration at Hogwarts, which is a full time job. In addition to which I serve as Warlock on the British high court, the Wizengamot, and I conduct my own research into alchemy, among my other hobbies,” Dumbledore gave a humorless smile. “So you see, I hope, that my ambition is limited by time—I do not hope to gain anything but the safety and security for witches and wizards in Britain and in the rest of the world when I offer my advice. And my advice remains,” Dumbledore’s voice turned hard, his eyes a steely blue as he gazed about the room, “that the nations present recognize the great threat Grindelwald poses and that we act now, before his war swells to proportions greater than the Great War.” 

Kneedander burst out laughing. Girande smiled, too.

“I’m sure your warmongering is coming from a noble place, Albus, but really,” said Fawley, through breathless chuckles. “A war worse than the Great War? What a nightmarish idea! Perhaps you ought to get more sleep in between your very many occupations and jobs, dear sir,” Fawley wiped a tear from his eye.

“We will strive to pursue a pacifist agenda,” said Kneedander, his tone and posture leaving no doubt to his awareness of his own righteous position. “In the interest of saving wizard lives. I think this topic is closed?”

“I’m so pleased that we might maintain the special relationship between our countries despite the recent change in leadership across the pond,” Fawley said, nodding at Kneedander and then turning to speak to Girande.

There proceeded several of the most boring and aggravating hours of Newt’s life. This was saying something, as he regularly had to crouch among brambles in boggy puddles for hours to wait out a particularly shy creature, such as a wispy Hinkypunk. It was meetings like these which made working in the Ministry an absolute misery to the younger Scamander brother. Theseus sat and listened with rapt attention, occasionally scribbling illegible notes into his small leather-bound notebook. Any hopes Newt had had that politics might help resolve the brewing war were crushed, slowly and surely, by the monotonous drone of subsequent representatives giving reasons for why economic sanctions would be sufficient to stop Grindelwald, and how they needed to think of their country first. Newt was reminded why he had stopped attempting to influence politics directly and chosen to write his book. 

When the conference broke for recess, Dumbledore let out a harried sigh and bid farewell to Flamel and to Newt.

“They will see reason, eventually,” Dumbledore said quietly. “But I fear it will be too late. I will not stay for the remainder. Take care, Newton. Remember, you can always call upon me for aid and advice.”

Newt swallowed and nodded at Dumbledore, who left with Flamel, but not before Flamel whispered into Newt’s ear.

“That’s a fine watch you have there, young man. You might try checking the time every now and then. _Ever watchful, ever wary, in the darkness the canary sings—its silence is a warning. Gold the herald of the morning_ ,” the last bit seemed to be a quote, a snatch of a nursery rhyme of some kind. Newt was not familiar with it, but it stuck in his mind.

 

 


	18. Follies and Friends, pt 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you kindly for your comments and kudos! I have up to 23 chapters written, now, and more coming. Was going to wait longer between updates but am too thirsty for comments, it seems <3
> 
> a query: I've been in contact with the lovely Sayatsugu, and she is busy but has recommended other artists whom I've reached out to, to commission. However, if you are an artist with an interest in illustrating this story, or if you know of an artist with an interest in this ship, would you please announce yourself to me / give me the recommendation? I'll give you my e-mail and we can talk, maybe do business ;)) I am ridiculously particular though, be aware <3
> 
> thanks for reading! (another OC here, I know, but a minor one, I promise!)

**18:** Follies and Friends, pt 2

The music was loud in the staircase, and louder still when they emerged into the crowded dinning room. The stage at the far end of the room glittered with young girls in rhinestone necklaces which bounced across their pert breasts as they performed high kicks and spins in tandem. Patrons sat at small round tables, eating hors d’oeuvres and sipping sparkling wine from narrow crystal flutes. Aspic wobbled to the dancing atop the tables, as though joining in. The place rang with music – the pianist on the side of the stage swayed to the tempo, her eyes closed, her hands sensuous and deliberate in their dance across the piano keys. A cellist accompanied her, and a brass band stood aside holding their instruments and waiting their turn. Young girls wearing glittering underwear and large plumes of pink and blue feathers at their waist and in their hair strode around the room, shaking tambourines and snatching the occasional champagne flute from an enamored listener. Newt felt compelled to double-check the latch on his case.

Theseus found a table far from the stage and slumped into a chair. He waved over the closest waiter and ordered four shots of whiskey in fluent French.

“Shame we missed Josephine,” he said. Newt sat down opposite him and pulled his coat tighter about himself. The people, the noise, the smells of fine perfume and alcohol and tobacco smoke were at once overwhelming and a welcome change of scenery from the wizarding conference upstairs.

The whiskeys were delivered, and a pair of hands slid two of Theseus’s three whiskeys across the table; Tina squeezed past Theseus and took half of his bounty, and offered Percival a share. The Americans joined the Scamanders at their table, and wordlessly the four of them raised their glasses.

“To the blindness of politicians and the impending war,” said Tina. “May we save whom we can from the _greater good_.” 

The glasses clinked and were thrown back. Newt and Tina grimaced, unused to such strong fare. Percival waved for another round.

“I thought it might go down like this,” Theseus said grimly, lighting up his pipe off the candle centerpiece, tilting the tobacco precariously. “I need you to get out of the country if I’m to have any influence at all. They won’t forget that scene anytime soon, Newt. They're going to try and discredit you if you show your face right now.”

A flash of something flickered in Newt’s eyes and vanished in an instant. His mouth tilted into a sulky frown.

“It was Grimsditch all along, and we never realized,” said Tina. “I wish I had never left! Maybe I could have stopped their so-called surprise vote…”

“Their coup was a long time in the planning,” said Percival, summoning a plate of oysters wandlessly from a nearby table. Theseus narrowed his eyes and cast a Notice-Me-Not Charm on their table. Percival drizzled his oyster with a squeeze of lemon and slurped it back, relishing the sour and salty taste, the thick texture melting down his throat. His eyes gleamed beneath lowered lids. Newt swallowed.

“But Kneedander for President! Of all the paper-pushing, spineless…” Tina huffed, and downed her second shot of whiskey, and grimaced again. 

“Just because people don’t listen to you the first time doesn’t mean they won’t eventually come ’round,” Newt said, settling his fingers on the rim of his empty glass and spinning it slowly, first with his fingers and then with subtle wandless magic. He caught himself and stopped. “Nor does it mean that all avenues of action are necessarily closed.”

“What are you proposing?” said Tina, leaning forward, eyes narrow and determined.

“Speaking from experience, eh?” said Theseus with a desultory smile. “Newt has been trying to get our laws changed for years. I think his book is the most effective step, actually. Subtle pressure and information provided at the right time can be influential.”

“That’s your job,” said Percival, turning a keen gaze to Theseus, who nodded.

“Precisely,” said Theseus. “Mine and Tina’s, here, I reckon?”

“I haven’t been fired, so I will scout it out,” said Tina, her face set in tense lines. “But I won’t like it.”

“Why were the Americans even invited? No offense,” Newt said quickly. “But where were the Germans, Theseus? They’re the ones who should be here. And the Soviets? Something’s not right in the rapid rescheduling and reshuffling that took place."

“The Germans were invited to the original conference,” said Graves, surveying the empty half-shells and the rainbow luster of their mother-of-pearl interiors. He thought of Newt’s wand, its inner-handle limned in similarly pearlescent shell. “But I am unaware about the arrangements for today. Tina?”

“Girande’s people were taking care of that. I think there’s some tension there, still,” Tina said slowly. “After Versailles…and lingering.”

Graves was watching Newt, who had been tasting his first oyster, sipping, savoring and swallowing with wide eyes. He examined the shell and took another, bringing it to his lips and pausing. Then Newt brightened and set down the oyster and nodded at someone across the hall. Beyond the feathers of a dancing young redhead, Newt’s eyes had found the eyes of a strikingly handsome young man. He was blond, broad-shouldered, and round-faced. When he turned his head and raised his hand in a wave at Newt, Percival saw a fiercely scarred burn along the side of his scalp, where hair had not regrown, and along his hand. The man gave a courteous bow to the dancing redhead and ducked around her to approach their table. 

“Yavorsky!” said Newt, rising to clasp the man’s hand and clap him on the shoulder. Yavorsky was smiling widely and beaming, his tan face and hands several shades darker than Newt’s. He was shorter and broader than Newt, but he walked with a similar loping, sideways gait.

“Scamander!” he said, rolling his r’s. His words held some sort of Slavic accent. “A little bird told me Western Europe was meeting at the Cabaret.”

“Skrypnyk let you out of the country,” Newt sounded surprised. “Oh. Oh, this is my brother, Theseus, and this is Tina Goldstein and Percival Graves of America.”

“Yavorsky, Matvei,” said Yavorsky, shooting each occupant of the table a direct look. His eyes were grey-blue but lighter than Theseus’s. Percival noticed suddenly that Matvei Yavorsky was not a young man, though he had appeared so from the other side of the room. There was grey in his light hair, and his eyes were nestled in fine creases.

“How do you two know each other?” said Theseus, narrowing his own eyes. Newt waved him off as he dragged over a chair, and Percival signaled their waitress for a bottle. Yavorsky grinned at this.

“Yavorsky was in my regiment,” said Newt shortly.

“Fought side by side, wing by wing in the Brusilov Offensive,” said Yavorsky, knocking back his whiskey like it was water. He waved for the bottle, and Newt suddenly looked uncomfortable.

“You took part in the Brusilov Offensive?” said Percival. He had vowed not to underestimate Newt Scamander, but it seemed he’d done so again. “The only successful battle to utilize dragons?” 

“Went all tits up in the July Offensive, though,” said Newt sourly, scrunching his nose.

“It was exhilarating,” Yavorsky interrupted. “You should have seen Newt soaring on Wasyliok, it was majestic as fuck. I say that correctly, yes? It was beautiful,” he brought his hand to his mouth and kissed his fingertips loudly. “Beautiful deadly. July proved that, when Havryil gave me this,” he gestured with his burned hand at his head. “But Newt talked him down. They were in hellish wild mood. Scared, angry, belching fire! Never seen anyone calm Ironbelly like Newt that day.”

“I don’t recall you ever mentioning you took part in that offensive,” said Theseus slowly, dangerously.

“I figured this family already had a war hero,” said Newt dryly. “Speaking of which, did you happen to meet Grindelwald at the Somme, by chance?”

Matvei looked between the brothers and poured each a liberal drink.

“Now, now! Bratya! Brothers,” he said, “Drink to our health! _Na zdarovya!_ ”

He tipped the bottom of Newt’s glass and the magizoologist swallowed and sputtered. He and Matvei laughed, the tips of their ears turning pink. Theseus downed his drink and frowned at Newt.

“Now we drink together, we don’t fight,” Matvei said jovially. He spotted the oysters and helped himself to several, slurping them happily down.

“No more fighting,” said Newt, after he finished coughing. Tina thumped him on the back.

“I’d better go listen to what the old white men upstairs are planning,” she said.

“Good luck,” Newt said. “You’re our inside man. Woman. Eyes and ears on WICA and MACUSA.”

Tina scoffed and walked away. The feathered girls made way for her, shooting her coy looks.

“How did you know about the Somme, anyway?” said Theseus, still frowning at his brother. “I did meet Grindelwald there. He was leading a handful of scouts out from behind our soldiers. He nearly blew me up! He and his scouts were wearing French uniforms, the cowards. Don’t know how they obtained them... If the French had not run to Verdun, I’m certain we would not have lost so many good wizards that day…”

“I’m sorry,” said Newt, looking forlorn. “Did he say anything?”

“He shouted something. I couldn’t hear, there was Muggle artillery,” Theseus shrugged. “He asked why we were involved in the Muggle war if we didn’t want Muggles knowing about us. I told him it was for their own good and then he began to argue semantics, of all things. It was bizarre. I didn’t know who he was then… figured it out later. He disagreed that secrecy helps Muggles but he seemed to want to help them through direct contact. Radical nonsense, of course, but I humored him until I figured out he wasn’t a frog. His French was good but he had a slight German accent. That’s when he sent me flying, the bastard. I woke up in the field hospital.”

“You were lucky,” said Yavorsky. “The damage he did when his plans rallied the Eastern front was horrible. He is brilliant strategist – like chess master. If he wasn’t so young the Germans would have promoted him to the top instead of sending him to scout behind enemy lines. And now the Soviet authorities are turning blind eye to that bastard, but I do not trust him or the Germans." 

“Your turn,” said Theseus, ignoring Yavorsky. “The Brusilov Offensive?” 

“It was all hush-hush,” said Yavorsky, when Newt averted his gaze and held his silence. “The heroes of this one went unsung because we couldn’t repeat the offensive. Not like you big shots on the Western front, Mr. Theseus Scamander! No, we had to deal with traumatized dragons! You think they want to fly into sound and light of Muggle artillery second or third time? They are not foolish like we are!”

“No,” Newt agreed softly, “not nearly as foolish as us,” he spoke into his lapel, head turned down and tilted. “It was the first and last such use of dragons. I don’t see what there is to say about it.”

“I still wonder if you might have made the dragons do it again,” said Yavorsky, “but several were injured, and then you went down over Lviv and got those little dragon kisses…”

“He calls my scars kisses,” Newt complained, looking up and squinting so that faint crow’s feet lined the outside of his eyes. Percival recalled the magically-mended burn scar that embraced the right side of Newt’s torso, stretching pink fingers across his chest and stomach, and curving across his back. It was certainly a less dramatic burn than the puckered skin of Yavorsky’s scars, but it was no kiss.

“Compared to mine, they are kisses! Wysal breathed orange fire on you! It’s unheard of, it’s like, a dog licking you. I got blue flames to this entire side. I was lucky my brain didn’t fry! See this scarring?” Yavorsky indicated his hand and the side of his head again. The darkened, hardened texture extended beneath his sleeve and collar. “Your scarring is pink! Like a burn from a candle!”

“Right,” Newt said wryly. “A candle-lit dragon kiss. You make it sound romantic.”

“But that’s not why I’m here,” Yavorsky interrupted himself. He poured more drinks and downed another three fingers of whiskey before he continued. “Skrypnyk didn’t let me out to drink. Although here we are! No, there has been much trouble in Lutsk and Kovel. The ladies are upset. Eggs have been disappearing for months – a total of three now. Took us this long to figure out there’s foul play at the Reservation.”

“Three eggs?” said Newt, sitting up in his chair. He licked his lips and met Yavorsky’s gaze head-on, his entire manner changing. Where he had been closed off and slouched, averting his gaze and leaning away from the table, Newt now leaned in. His blue gaze was steady and serious.

“We think there are traffickers somewhere in the vicinity, but the ladies are distraught. We can’t get near to take stock of what and who was taken. It looks like the entire Reservation might collapse if they decide to migrate or worse, scatter. The Soviet Statute of Secrecy is somewhat analogous to yours, in this instance,” Yavorsky smirked mirthlessly.

“You mean you don’t want rogue dragons flying around the country,” said Theseus, his eyes round. “That would be bad.” 

“Just so,” said Yavorsky. “That’s why I come here, to ask the only man who’s ever managed to calm an Ironbelly to come back to Ukraine with me.” 

“What?” said Percival. “You didn’t know about WICA, then? How did you track down your friend?”

“I heard a rumor,” Yavorsky said. “But politics are not my concern right now. They are back home, actually. But not your politics…” he looked between Theseus, Percival and Newt. “My people are starving. The Soviet state is solidifying power in brutal ways. You would not believe me if I told you, and I don’t have the time to try. Magical means of travel have been blocked off completely. I took a train here and it leaves again in several hours. So I am going to drink and then I will leave, after I grab some French stockings for my Larisa. Scamander, will you come with me?” 

Yavorsky pulled over a fresh bottle and fixed Newt with a stare. 

“I will,” Newt nodded. “I would never abandon our iron ladies!”

Yavorsky beamed and poured them both large drinks. 

“But I need your help getting several werewolves out of Paris,” Newt continued, “Maybe to a colony up in Siberia? They’re going to be hunted, otherwise.”

“I’ll see if I can get some people organized to try it,” Yavorsky said, “but you know how it is, werewolves are not very easy to transport and there is prejudice…” 

“Just try,” Newt insisted, pouring Yavorsky more whiskey.

“How did you find Newt Scamander?” Percival repeated. Yavorsky shrugged.

“Rumors. How does he find his creatures? You follow the trail. I was going to take the train to London from here and enquire with his brother, who has, how you say, bigger profile? Newt usually leaves vague itinerary with him, in case he is needed—there is network to get ahold of him, backchannel from the war, and Scamander likes updates from his contacts about what is going on in black market of various countries to know if any creatures need saving. Has a shaman friend in Siberia, a monk watching a monastery-full of Boggarts in Poland, and the Director of Magical Security of Egypt, I think? I didn’t have to go to London when I heard about the gas explosion in Paris, though. You can bet where there’s trouble Newt will be at heart of it,” he grinned and looked around, “Not his fault, poor soul, but trouble finds him everywhere! I sometimes think if he stopped traveling and stood still, it would all catch up to him. Now, I wonder if there is any decent vodka in this city?” 

Percival frowned thoughtfully, watching Theseus and Newt drink with Yavorsky’s encouragement. A feathered girl was dragging Theseus up into a dance, and a tipsy Newt was clinging to his suitcase so as to avoid such attentions from half-naked girls casting him hopeful looks, his face flushed and his movements clumsy. Percival courteously refused the same offer from a feathered girl, and marveled at the amount of liquor Yavorsky and the Scamanders were putting away. After the way WICA had gone, he couldn’t blame them.


	19. Into the forest dim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for the feedback from that last chapter. It was generous and heart-warming and wonderful. Please do keep it up? (I've planned out the rest of this more carefully, now, and goodness is it far more ambitious than I intended.. whoo boy, I will try and pull it off, though, because these characters are pretty fantastic themselves, and your feedback is encouraging as hell) <3
> 
> Hmm, also:  
>  **TW for graphic violence** for the first paragraph in particular & first scene of this chapter... there is quite a shift in mood from the start to the end there, now I reflect on it... which, yeah. good.

**Chapter 19:** Into the forest dim

  
The Thestral wailed, a high-pitched sound that cracked and cut off in a wash of green light. His eyes were hot with tears, and the intensity of feeling stopped up his voice. Newt ran to Pamela, to what had once been Pamela but now lay mangled in the street, reduced to a lean carcass oozing blood, a pair of empty eyes that had been affectionate and curious. He was weeping, senselessly repeating her name, pressing his forehead into a cool, leathery wing. The Knights disembarked from their brooms and stood about him in a circle, jeering but coming no closer, and then they parted.

A hoarse voice said, “ _That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, and with thee fade away into the forest dim: fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget what thou among the leaves hast never known: the weariness, the fever, and the fret…_ here, do not fret, dear Newton, you did not kill her. Not directly, not like the Obscurial girl,” Grindelwald was kneeling near him, and Newt moved to shield Pamela, but she was gone.

“What have you done?” Newt said, his words slurred with tears, his voice cracking. He could not see for tears. He did not want to see. “What have you done? _Pamela_!”

“You need my help protecting the innocent from yourself, Newton,” Grindelwald said, extending a hand and a sinister smile. Newt inched away, feeling chilled. Where was Pamela? Had she been killed? Was it an illusion? It had felt so real.

Grindelwald’s expression turned impatient. He rose and nodded, and a pair of Knights flanked Newt and hauled him roughly up by the arms. Newt cast about desperately, flailing. Towering, impersonal buildings with empty windows reminded him of Pamela's empty eyes. It was cold and very quiet, as though all other living things had abandoned the city. Newt tried to wriggle free, twisting and elbowing the Knights sharply. No use: his flailing only resulted in bruising grips and a backhand to the face. Newt stilled, breathing hard, overgrown fringe falling across his right eye. His cheek stung with the blow.

Grindelwald smirked and raked his gaze along Newt, who tried and failed to shrink away in the grasp of the violet-clad wizards. Grindelwald’s right eye was an icy blue, his left inky-black and fathomless. Their combined scrutiny was deeply unsettling. It felt as though the darker eye could see into his mind and his magic, could lay bare and corrupt the tangle of emotions and magic that comprised his very innermost self, that interiority which Newt himself was incapable of penetrating. The lighter eye reminded him of an arctic version of Dumbledore’s piercing gaze, appreciative and perceptive but so very chill… Newt averted his gaze to Grindelwald’s officer's boots, the knee-high leather polished to shine.

The boots and the rest of the wizard stepped around him. With a hissing sound, Grindelwald’s wand drew a line of heat down Newt’s spine, from collar to lower back. Newt tried to peer over his shoulder. He felt his coat split, his suit, vest and shirt below it parting to reveal the skin of his back, the fabric beginning to slide down his shoulders, parting like the back of an elegant gown to reveal his scarred skin. The cloth was smoking and the smell of burning cotton reached his nostrils. Newt jerked in the grasp of the wizards immobilizing him, and was nearly lifted from his feet when they wrenched his arms back in retaliation.

“Careful, now,” Grindelwald whispered. He was examining the curse scar on Newt’s exposed back, tracing it with his fingers or wand, threatening to lance Newt’s back with the pain of it all again. Newt felt helplessly, impossibly vulnerable, back arching away from this exploration. The healing wound pulsed sore and reopened under the touch, warm trails of blood tickling their way down Newt's back and starting to soak his trousers. Slick fingers probed the bleeding flesh, tingling with exploratory magic, an invasive diagnostic, Newt realized. Grindelwald was curious.

“I didn’t realize my wand would take such a liking to you, pet,” Grindelwald said into his ear. Newt froze as wet fingers wrapped around the back of his neck, a light and fluttering touch. “Why don’t you give me Credence, and I might consider letting you keep Percy?”

Newt’s heart was beating wildly in his chest but he remained frozen beneath those cold, bloody hands, not daring to move. His eyes were very dry and very wide. The hand on the back of his neck began brushing gentle circles across his nape and the short hair at the back of his head. Newt shuddered convulsively and bit out,

“No, please, I don’t know where Credence is!”

He knew he was a rubbish liar. Expecting more pain, expecting nails to pierce his neck, or a _Cruciatus_ to the back, Newt was surprised when none of these things happened.

Instead, a shadow fell across the side street, darker even than the gloomy surroundings, and then he heard a familiar voice say:

“Oh dear, this does not look good.”

The cold fingers left his neck. The Knights were no longer supporting him, and Newt collapsed to his knees onto the ground. His vision went and came back again, different. Swirls of fog rose up from the moist ground, which had soaked the knees of his trousers. There was springy soft moss beneath his hands and knees, and the scent of fungus and the trickle and drip of rainwater.

“Let’s just fix that,” said the same voice, and Newt felt his coat align and sow itself together, the layers below it mending themselves to match. It felt like the skin of his back had pulled itself together just as his coat had, and the aching had subsided to soreness. He was shaking; he brought his arms about himself.

“I-Ignotus?” Newt said.

The youngest Peverell brother was sitting on a half-rotted log on the edge of the clearing in which Newt found himself kneeling. The man was examining the canopy above their heads—the trees came together, obscuring the night sky with a ceiling of arched boughs and wet, wind-shuffled leaves. The gaps between them revealed a night sky full of unfamiliar stars.

“Hullo there, Newt,” said Ignotus, his eyes still fixed on the canopy.

“Thank you,” Newt breathed, and then, “I take it I’m dreaming?”

“You are,” Ignotus nodded. “Though you might have better dreams, I think, if you learned Occlumency. I am glad to not have met this Grindelwald fellow.”

“He’s a piece of work,” said Newt hoarsely.

They sat and listened to the dripping of water. Newt’s breathing and heart rate gradually slowed.

“Where are we?” he said, after some time.

“A safe place,” said Ignotus, looking to Newt wistfully. “I am good at hiding, you see. And sometimes it’s necessary to hide, for a time, to resolve an internal struggle or to protect someone you love. Occlumency can create such refuges in your mind, just like you create habitats suited to the needs of your creatures. They are temporary sanctuaries, but no less necessary for it.”

Newt blinked and looked about the darkened forest. There was birdsong somewhere far away, but he saw no birds. The soggy moss was covering a square foundation, the long-crumbled stone walls of what used to be a cabin.

“Is this a memory? Making such places must require considerable effort,” Newt said, thinking aloud. “I spend weeks researching creatures to ascertain their needs and preferences before I might attempt to make a micro-habitat for a recuperating beast.”

“Self-awareness is not vanity,” said Ignotus, waving his hand up at the trees. The boughs parted in a fleeting breeze, revealing a foreign, starry sky. “You must mind your own needs and preferences, of course, but it really begins in your memories and associations. Breaking and creating them. But you begin to wake, Newt, and I must away like a ghost at the herald of the dawn. Or, well, like a polite ghost. A rare species, now…”

Ignotus faded from view, griping mildly about ghosts and courtesy to roosters and dawn. Newt gazed up at the rustling of the canopy, the murmuring of water in the leaves which gradually, seamlessly became the white noise of an engine.

 

There was a splitting pain in his head. The smooth motion and the sound of the engine suggested that he was on board a commercial form of transport. Everything was swimming and he wondered if he was on a steamship, and what had collided with his head—a Graphorn?

“Don’ wanta go back to Uh’merica,” he muttered, without opening his eyes. “They’re all crazy o’er there. Five minutes, Dougal.”

“Is this what you think of Americans?” said a low voice from nearby. “Given your experience in New York, I suppose it’s justified.”

Newt sprung up and hit his head on a glass sconce lamp that lit the luxurious train compartment he was occupying with Percival Graves.

“Percival!” he gasped. “Where? What? Ignotus! My case—?”

Graves looked somewhat amused, but took mercy on Newt and pointed to the old case lying on top of the lush red quilt at the foot of Graves’s bed.

The morning sun glittered off the melting snowy landscape outside the train window. Newt winced at the brightness. They were moving past a small village and the tolling of churchbells could be heard faintly through the glass. A distant herd of cows spotted the hillside, picking at patches of yellow grass that poked through the snow.

The compartment was a luxury sleeper with two bunk beds and a small table between them. The table currently supported a tea tray with all the trimmings, and Newt gasped when his eyes landed on the steaming spout of a teapot. He poured himself a shaky cup. His head ached, and his back felt sore, but it was the soreness of healing and not of a reopened wound. Newt drank deep; tea was the thing for difficulties. There was no use worrying.

“Ah,” he exhaled into bergamot-scented steam and set down his teacup. Suddenly aware of Graves’s eyes on him, Newt lowered his head and peeked out cautiously from beneath his fringe.

The Auror was as immaculate as ever in his starched white and crisp black, his glossy hair held with pomade, his eyes sharp and curious. He looked radiant in the morning light, like he had stepped out from a moving picture into the train compartment to travel with Newt. Which raised the question…

“I’m sorry, I don’t recall boarding a train,” Newt said.

“You wouldn’t, the amount you and your friend Yavorsky imbibed at the cabaret,” said Graves. Newt was thankful that his voice was low in volume as well as pitch. “How’s your head?”

Newt grimaced and drank some more tea.

“Might’ve overdone it,” he admitted. “Matvei is not the best of influences and I’m getting no younger.”

Graves smirked, and Newt was struck by the difference in this Graves to the imposter. He was also struck by the fact that this was the second time he was waking to find Graves’s watchful gaze on him, Graves’s reassurance that his creatures were safe. It was oddly comforting.

“I’m sorry, I’m sure I didn’t mean to pass out like that,” Newt said. “What line is this? Did they put us into first class by mistake?”

“No mistake,” Graves said with some smugness. “Your Soviet friend took the last third-class couchette on a significantly cheaper train. I took the liberty of booking us a compartment on this one. It will get us through Belgrade or Zagreb, where we can catch a direct line to Ukraine and local transport to the Reservation. I assume you will mind the details as we draw near—I don’t actually know where it is we’re going.”

“But this is…” Newt gazed around the compartment. It was clear he did not usually travel at such expense. “It’s far too much.”

“The Simplon-Orient Express,” said Graves primly. “I’ve always wanted to try one of these European luxury trains myself. And since it seems I’ve been forced into early retirement and you’re on your way to wrangle dragons, I thought we might travel this way. I trust this poses no problem?”

Newt stuttered and blinked, and Graves let out an amused huff of air.

“Good,” he said. “Now that you’re awake, perhaps you will care to inspect or reinforce the wards I placed on our compartment?”

Newt nodded dumbly.

After a pause, he said, uncertainly, “I’m sorry, I must not have understood. Why are you here?”

“Your brother was quick to dismiss you from the country, our governments were quick to dismiss our testimony, and this trouble at your former place of employment…” Graves narrowed his eyes, “I don’t trust it to be coincidental. So I’m coming with you.”

“MACUSA didn’t know that firing you would only fuel your investigation,” said Newt with a small smile, which he immediately dropped. “Oh, I am sorry…”

Percival held up a hand, his mouth curling.

“I was groomed for this career, Newt. But it didn’t feel like I lost my job with Kneedander’s coup.”

“You mean you felt you had lost it before, when Grindelwald impersonated you,” said Newt.

His gaze was steady. Percival found he liked these intermittent moments of confidence, these glimpses of kindness and strength which were usually, and perhaps unconsciously, masked with uneasiness and hesitation. The Auror in Graves also appreciated the quick perception Newt was wont to exhibit. The eccentricity and the discomfort seemed to Percival to be habitual defense mechanisms.

“I did,” Percival admitted. “In a way, politics are just now catching up to a reality I had to face a year ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Newt said. “But… you faced that reality. And you overcame it. You recovered, and came back to your job, and, forgive me, you seemed to be doing it well.”

Percival’s lip curled ironically at Newt’s words.

“It was rough going, for a few months,” he admitted. “I don’t know what I would have done without the Goldsteins. And I suppose Jacob helped,” Percival shrugged. “Back in the war, and as I rose through the ranks of Aurors, I did my best to isolate myself, to succeed on my own strength.”

“And you fended off Grindelwald,” said Newt, turning to gaze out the window with a somewhat vacant stare. “I don’t know how you did that, after all you’ve been through. I don’t want to face him again,” he added quietly.

“I will do my utmost to prevent that,” said Percival.

Newt gave a distant, half-hearted nod.

“But after Grindelwald defeated me,” Percival pushed on, and Newt glanced over, tilting his head, “I realized that going it alone had been a mistake. Not only because it allowed that bastard to remain undetected,” Percival let out a ragged, furious breath, and worked to compose himself. “But because finding strength in others is no weakness. It’s what you do with your beasts,” he looked to Newt’s case. “Queenie and Tina helped teach me that. Your Professor Dumbledore said something along those lines, too.”

“Is that why you decided to come with me?” said Newt, and there was an edge to his voice. “Did Dumbledore suggest I needed protection? Or Theseus, that I was going to break the law?”

Percival opened his mouth to dispute this, but Newt, who had been tense in his sleep and strained upon waking, barrelled on.

“I’ve been traveling alone for well over a decade, tangling with poachers, on occasion the mafia, various governments and independent groups of wizards who believe they are entitled to do what they like with beasts. Due to a lack of legislation protecting beasts, my work often falls outside the purview of the law. I know people find this difficult to believe, but I am perfectly capable of pursuing this interest without putting the Statute at risk-” he paused for breath, evidently prepared for a big finish. Percival took his chance to interrupt.

“I’ve been fired, so I’m hardly going to arrest you,” he said, and Newt deflated somewhat. “Besides, you would have boarded a train to Timbuktu last night without my help.”

“I don’t think there are any direct trains to Timbuktu from Paris,” Newt put in skeptically.

“Dumbledore said that Grindelwald’s strategy is to isolate us and set us against each other. It’s an effective strategy, but it failed when you took Grindelwald’s wand and reversed the Magical Draining Curse which that bastard used on me. You are proving to be exceptional at foiling that madman’s plots, Newt,” Percival tried and failed to catch the magizoologist’s gaze. “And I am indebted to you several times over for it. That is why I’m traveling with you. I don’t pity you, and I won’t arrest you for your less-than-legal conservation efforts. Please allow me to help you, Newt. At least let me see you safely to your friend Yavorsky at this Reservation.”

Newt wasn’t sure how to resolve the charged intensity in the suddenly too-small compartment. Unused to being thanked explicitly, he thought wildly of Credence, who was overwhelmed by the smallest praise, and wondered when he himself had got so starved for appreciation. He felt light-headed with it.

“I wouldn’t mind a human traveling companion, I suppose,” Newt all but whispered into his collar. “But you mustn’t feel obligated or indebted to me. I did what anyone would have done…”

Percival raised a hand to hover, palm up, between them.

“May I?” said Percival, and Newt turned his head away, and then nodded shakily, exhaling, holding his breath.

The hand gently took his chin and tilted his head up, relieving the tension in his neck and bringing him nose-to-nose with Percival Graves. Those intent, dark eyes were warm, up-close, and Newt felt a tightly-controlled magical signature reminiscent of juniper berries or gin, of decaying leaves and peaty warmth. Then Percival raised his wand, and Newt tensed, but the Auror did not _shush_ him as Grindelwald had done, but merely gave a flick of his ebony wand with which Newt’s headache melted away. The sudden absence of the hangover and tension he had not realized he was carrying made Newt sigh in relief.

Percival’s eyes studied Newt’s face, the way the magizoologist’s shoulders sagged when his headache ebbed, how those startled blue-green eyes were wide and bright when Newt brought them up to meet Percival’s own. His hand had slid to cup Newt’s jaw, the side of his face, thumb brushing across a cheek, fingertips nestling into soft, messy hair. Newt tilted his head lightly into Percival’s palm and closed his eyes. The hand was warm and the touch felt so tender—and nothing like the terrifying, cold-fingered grip in his dream. Percival felt the quickening heartbeat beneath his palm.

He pulled back, then, and Newt opened his eyes and seemed to retreat back into his slouched posture, his head bowed into his coat collar once again.

“Thank you,” Newt’s whisper was barely audible.

“My pleasure,” said Percival, almost as quietly.

 


	20. the Orient Express

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so first, Merry Christmas (eve)! And if not, then Happy Holidays! And if not, then I hope the end of 2017 treats you well!
> 
> also, there will be more plot, but much of this chapter is gratuitous dialogue and mild fluff. because we're 20 chapters in and I want it. and I hope you do too <3
> 
> thanks as ever and always for feedback, which is lovely lovely. (i'm up thru ch26 now, and will keep working, keeping it flexible because it's only magical when the characters can surprise you, and me. So 33-34 total, probably? but this might change.)
> 
> the next chapter, 21, is called the golden snidget.

**Chapter 20:** The Orient Express ****  
  
They took breakfast in the dining car as they traveled through southern Germany—the Weimar Republic, Newt said, which was not supposed to be arming the Sudetenland but most certainly was.

“What do you expect?” Newt asked over another steaming cup of tea. Percival was impressed by the quantities of it the ginger was putting away. The Auror drank coffee and cast an eye on the other occupants of the car as they spoke. Newt’s case was tucked safely between the magizoologist’s knees under the table. He had declined to leave it in the compartment, and after vanishing in it for quite some time, had finally agreed to take breakfast for himself with Percival. Now he was eating defrosted raspberries and expressing subversive opinions on contemporary politics. His stiff posture told Percival that though the pain-relieving spell had alleviated Newt’s hangover, the healing wound on his back still pained the magizoologist.

They had left their coats in the compartment and come to breakfast in their jackets, Percival’s of fine black wool and Newt’s looking like something furry had burrowed in it last night. There was a black leaf of Moly peeking out from one of his pockets, and Pickett was hiding inside his lapel.

“Versailles was a disaster of a treaty. Revenge is never a foundation for lasting peace,” Newt concluded, taking a delicate bite. Percival was finding the situation unexpectedly difficult. He wanted to engage fully with Newt on politics, but he felt he needed to case the train car and their fellow diners. Newt’s table manners were also a distracting surprise, and Percival found his gaze drawn to both raspberries and the lips they were gradually staining.

With an effort, he glanced up at a young blonde woman at the far table; her blue eyes and painted lips looked dull and faded by comparison. She looked strangely familiar. She was nibbling on a croissant and conversing with an elderly, white-haired gentleman in French. The Frenchman had been reading a newspaper, and had put it down in favor of speaking with the beautiful young lady. Percival surmised they were strangers from the way they smiled politely during silences. Several tables were empty, and there was a pair of old world aristocrats muttering in muted Dutch, and an unremarkable woman who was scribbling into a notebook. She had light hair that was curled in an old-fashioned style about her face, and sharp dark eyes rather like Percival’s, and she was engrossed in her work. Percival looked back to Newt, who was gazing out the window. The morning light softened Newt’s features, making him appear younger. He looked thoughtful, and concern creased his brow.

“No,” Percival responded at last. “But we had lost so much, all of us. Versailles was a means to ensure justice.”

“Was it just?” Newt echoed, still gazing at the passing landscape. There were factories belching smoke, and their conversation made Percival see them as the illegal, industrial weapons production facilities which Newt had been telling him about. “Sometimes there can be no justice. How can there be, for all those dead men and women and children? Sometimes healing is the best justice. And how can the Weimar Republic heal with such punishing measures, with the reparations and limitations placed upon it?”

“Are you likening the Weimar Republic to a dangerous beast?” said Percival. “Need I remind you of their aggression?”

“If the shoe fits,” Newt shrugged, setting down his teacup and running his finger over its rim absently. It began to revolve very slowly, in the opposite direction. Newt’s gaze was fixed on Percival’s scorpion collar pins. “When you back a beast into a corner, you provoke it to attack. It has no other option, if it wants to survive. I do have other metaphors, you know, but everyone always assumes I can only have opinions on one political issue.”

Percival chuckled, incredulous.

“You’d have given Germany options?”

“To redeem their international standing and undo the damage they did, yes,” Newt said quietly. “I know it’s an unpopular opinion. I was there. I saw the damage. Nevertheless…” he tilted his head as though listening for something and then shrugged again.

“I did wonder why you gave Grindelwald his wand back, in that memory,” said Percival softly. Newt looked up at him. 

“He would have gotten if off me one way or another,” Newt said, just as quietly. “I had hoped to surprise him, to encourage good behavior, or a lapse in judgment to mirror mine.”

Percival kept from laughing this time, but it was a close call.

“You can’t be serious,” he said, voice low and head tilted to look out from beneath his brows. “Good behavior from _Grindelwald_? You tried to train the darkest wizard of the century?”

“Not good behavior, exactly,” said Newt with a thin, uneasy smile. A waiter came to refill their tea and coffee, and the conversation paused until he was gone. “ _Merci_. I just thought, when was the last time someone extended any trust to him? He certainly did not deserve it, but sometimes… sometimes we require things we don’t deserve, to feel…human?” Newt stopped, and the tips of his ears turned red, and he turned his face into his steaming teacup, embarrassed.

“What is it you feel you do not deserve?” said Percival, after a weighted pause.

Newt swallowed and bit his lip and remained silent, and Percival wondered if he had gone too far. Newt seemed exceedingly repressed when it came to his own emotions, even as he dealt with much more frightening creatures on a daily basis, and navigated around Percival’s emotions with astoundingly deft perception.

But Newt mustered the will and the words, after some time. He still did not look at Percival, but he said, very quietly, “You touched my face, back in the compartment, when you healed my headache. My hangover. Why?”

Percival saw a pink tongue dart out to lick a chapped, raspberry-stained bottom lip. The flush that had settled across Newt’s features camouflaged his freckles. It was not attractive, but Percival found it fetching anyway.

“Because I wanted to,” Percival said easily. “Might I be permitted to do it again?”

“I…uhm,” Newt seemed at loss at this confession. “I suppose. You want to?”

“I’m glad it was not unwelcome, then,” said Percival, a laugh in his voice. Then he grew serious. “I think that you do not take sufficient precautions with your safety, Newt. I would also like to understand a few things about the aftermath of the clash at Rue Parcheminerie. Beyond this, my motives are purely selfish.”

“So altruism, professional interest, and a mysterious selfish motive?” Newt recounted, still puzzled. “Are you always this paradoxical, Mr. Graves?”

“Percival,” said Percival, again. “If you would be so kind.” 

“Percival,” Newt repeated, and Graves brightened. “I still don’t understand.”

“I enjoy your company, Mr. Scamander,” said Percival. It was Newt’s turn to correct him, and Percival gave a rare smile. “Newt,” he said, “is that so difficult to believe?”

“It is highly unusual in humans,” Newt mumbled. Percival caught it, and nodded.

“You will find I am a highly unusual human,” he said.

Newt turned his wide, bright gaze on Percival in something like surprise and amused hope. Then he stacked his breakfast dishes into a neat pile and began revolving his teacup in its saucer absently. Percival held his silence.

“You said you had questions?” Newt said.

“I do, though you’ve addressed one of them,” Percival said. “But let’s take this back to our compartment,” he added brusquely, gazing about. The woman was still writing—she looked English, Percival decided, and quite boring. The Frenchman was reading his newspaper again, and the very blue eyes of the young lady darted from the back of Newt’s head to meet Percival’s. She gave a coy smile, and Percival returned her gaze blankly until she looked away. Percival narrowed his eyes. She looked familiar, but he had been distracted by Grimsditch and Kneedander, and had not paid any mind to the young blonde witch sitting near Girande at WICA. It was highly unusual for Percival to be unable to recall a face, and he wondered…

They walked back to their compartment, not meeting any other passengers, and into the safety of their excessive wards. Newt set his case down onto his bed and ran a hand over it without seeming to notice his actions. Percival sat down and took off his jacket. They would be stopping in Munich soon, if he had judged the time and distance correctly. He waited for Newt to meet his gaze.

The magizoologist seemed to realize that he was being trained, and gave an exasperated but half-hearted glare. Percival smirked and regarded Newt soberly. 

“I understand you are not well-versed in mind magic,” Percival began.

Newt nodded.

“How proficient are you at Occlumency? At Legilimency? Your Charmwork and your dueling are exemplary, and my former Aurors would tell you that I do not give praise lightly. Or at all,” Percival added.

“Oh,” said Newt, lowering his gaze to the scorpion pins again. He seemed almost disappointed at the compliment, like he did not know what to do with it. “Thank you? I told you and Professor Dumbledore, I’m absolute rubbish at mind magic. Can’t do a bit of Occlumency, let alone Legilimency.” He chewed his bottom lip again, and Percival looked away.

“I see,” Percival said. “I wonder if you have any theories, then, as to how your mind was expertly Occluded when you were in that cursed sleep?”

His voice was strained, even harsh. Newt looked up, and Percival’s gaze was unusually calculating.

“I do have a theory,” Newt said a little sadly. “But I don’t think you will believe me.”

“Try me,” said Percival, his eyes narrow. They were sitting opposite each other again, Newt’s gaze everywhere except on Percival.

Newt swallowed and began.

“Do you know Beedle the Bard? The Tale of the Three Brothers?” 

* * *

  
“Dumbledore and Flamel seem to have a theory on this sort of magic, then,” Percival said, still mulling what Newt had told him. Munich had come and gone, and Vienna was fast approaching. The light was changing, acquiring a cast of orange and slanting across the landscape to create dusky pooling shadows beyond hills and barns and houses.

“I doubt there’s much magic that Flamel hasn’t come across,” said Newt.

“Perks of a long life,” Percival agreed. “Still, what a fool Grindelwald is! To mismanage a curse so profoundly!”

“It’s a very grand mistake,” Newt said. “But it proves… if you take my word, that is… it suggests the Deathly Hallows exist. Which is,” he shook his head. “I haven’t spoken to anyone about this. I didn’t think they would believe me. Dumbledore figured it out, of course, and Flamel confirmed it… but I don’t know if _I_ would believe me. And those two aren’t exactly the most conventional of wizards…”

Newt looked lost again, and the contrast pained Percival. Newt had been so capable, so powerful when they had battled together, and when he had lectured about beasts during his reading.

“Dumbledore let slip something about Grindelwald’s wand that leads me to believe it is indeed a Hallow,” Percival said. “The Elder wand. What did you make of it? You had it for a short while. It would explain some of his preternatural strength…”

“It was powerful,” Newt said, thinking back. His hand came up to his lapel, but Pickett had been deposited back in the case. He fingered his new pocketwatch instead, and it snapped open beneath his fingers. Surprised, Newt looked down. The glass watch-face glimmered and he caught a glimpse of a gold ring set with a black stone. Newt blinked, and the light glare was gone. The time read eleven minutes until noon.

“A new timepiece?” said Graves, who was observing Newt closely as he responded to his questions.

“Kit gave it to me, trying to make amends for Grindelwald’s actions,” Newt said shortly. “I don’t quite understand how it works. Can’t even set the correct time. Kit mentioned something about the Order of the Golden Dawn?” Newt watched Percival for a reaction, this time, and was not disappointed.

Percival’s eyes widened perceptibly.

“Are you a member?” Newt said.

“No, not I,” Percival said, “But I have heard it to be exceedingly secretive and very exclusive. But first, you were telling me about the Elder Wand?”

“Ah, yes,” Newt closed the watch and ran his fingers over the lid, warming the metal in his grasp. “It felt disproportionate in its use of magic. Also, this might be nothing, but I assumed it would be made of elder wood, but it was quite white. You don’t think Grindelwald transfigured it, do you? Or painted it?”

“Wouldn’t put it past the lunatic,” said Percival, and Newt grinned at the image of Grindelwald repainting the Elder wand. “Yes, this rather addresses my questions,” he mused.

“Is the mystery gone? Shall you be off at Vienna?” said Newt, half-teasing and half-despondent.

“You won’t be rid of me so easily,” Percival said, and suddenly he smiled. “It seems you’ve been advised to acquire Occlumeny skills and allies, and I think I can fulfill both requirements. If you’ll have me?”

Newt gaped at Percival Graves, who seemed impossibly beautiful in that moment. It took him some time to respond, but judging by the spark in Percival’s eyes, he understood what Newt was failing to put into words.


	21. the Golden Snidget

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JKR introduced me to a day called Boxing Day when I was a kid... so happy Boxing Day! Here's a chapter <3  
> thank you for the feedback, it nourishes my soul. the part of it that writes fanfic, at least ;)

**Chapter 21:** the Golden Snidget

 

“ _Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore_ …

“… _there is a Draught of Nepenthe, also called Lethe-water, which requires somewhat unusual ingredients… the feathers of a living raven._ _But I see you know this poem well. I think the occasion calls…_ ”

“Won’t you oblige a fan of your work?” Grindelwald insisted, when Newt had collected himself off the ground.

“You begin to sound just like him,” he said, and then, “Keep it,” when Newt held out the pen.  
  
“Like whom?” said Newt.

“There were some curious omissions in your book. I wonder, were you grieving for a creature you only just met?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said the memory-Newt stiffly. 

“You really are a terrible liar,” said Percival. The memory faded, and Newt found himself lying on his back on his bed on the Orient Express. Percival had insisted he recline now that they had advanced to the practical part of the Occlumency lesson.

“Don’t want you tripping over your case and setting loose Merlin-knows-what,” Graves had muttered.

He was leaning over Newt, brows knitted together, gravity tugging at his slicked hair. A strand had got loose and Newt itched to reach for it. He recalled Percival leaning over him when he had passed out on the Rue Parcheminerie, after Grindelwald had nearly strangled him.

“That was at the bookshop?” Percival said. “You didn’t share that part with Dumbledore.”

“No, well, I had half-convinced myself I had dreamt it,” Newt admitted. “Why would a dark wizard stalk me in the night, reciting poetry? It’s absurd… although no more absurd than being advised to learn Occlumency by Ignotus Peverell, I suppose…”

“It’s good advice,” Percival said firmly. “Grindelwald seems to like a show, and you had rather foiled his act at MACUSA. Perhaps this was his way of impressing you?” Graves smirked through his serious expression, and Newt swatted at him. 

“It’s not funny. I’ve had poetry nightmares since then,” he complained.

“Kit would be impressed,” said Percival. “Your distress taking such literary forms. Perhaps you should be a Professor at that stuffy school up in Scotland.”

“They kicked me out, remember?” Newt said, scowling. Percival backed away, then, and Newt rose slowly.

“How are you feeling?” Percival said.

“Like I’m failing at Occlumency,” snapped Newt. Percival arched a brow.

“If you’re going to behave like a petulant schoolboy, I’ll treat you like one and give you lines,” he said.

“I used to do lines all the time,” Newt quirked his head and recited: “I must not go off into the Forbidden Forest. The Forbidden Forest is forbidden for a reason. All sorts of nonsense like that.”

“It clearly didn’t take,” Percival muttered, giving Newt an appraising look. “They gave us essays at Ilvermorny, but I doubt that would intimidate a bestselling author such as yourself. I’ll have to think up a better punishment.”

His low voice suggested Newt might enjoy the experience.

“Just don’t read me poetry,” said Newt, but he didn’t mean it.

 

* * *

They tried again, and again. Each time, Newt did his best to clear his mind, to imagine a positive absence where his memories should be. Percival’s keen, dark eyes pursued him through his memories. They were inescapable.

Percival watched Newt watching a unicorn foal on the edge of the forest. He had been crying by a large lake in view of a castle. The young Newt rubbed at his red-rimmed eyes and approached the gold foal in the shade of the trees. He raised a cautious hand and waited. After some time, the unicorn trotted out from beneath the canopy. It had clear, childish eyes and a nub where its horn would one day grow. Newt’s blue-green eyes were teary and disbelieving when the creature stopped beneath his hand. The memory was infused with wonder.

Theseus was shouting and throwing a book at him, red-faced and furious. Newt ducked out of a window to the words, “Reckless, suicidal idiot!” and dropped down along the ivy-woven trellis from the second floor of a four-story Regency town house. He refused to sit out this war when he had heard that dragons were being conscripted for weaponry, to be ridden and likely slayed. Not if he could help it.

Augustus Worme looked unimpressed, and Newt was promising him all but indentured servitude for a loan to travel and write his book. Augustus did him one better—he promised to pay him if Newt would take a year to travel--not just during the holidays but full-time. “Clear off and it’ll help clear your head,” Worme was saying. “All these blokes returning from the war shell-shocked and you going on about dragons…”

Grindelwald was interrogating him while wearing Percival’s face, asking after Dumbledore’s interest in Newt. He looked as handsome as ever, but his eyes were calculating and his gaze flitted between Newt and the more-or-less harmless Obscurus. Newt had forgotten how intimidating Grindelwald-as-Percival had been: how wan and cold his flat gaze was, how sinister that unnatural curl of Percival’s lip looked, how his long forehead creased in mock-concern before he ordered their execution, and Newt was dragged from the room by his chained hands…

Percival broke the spell, then.

Newt blinked up at him, but Percival had retreated to sit on his bed, a broad hand covering his face. The splayed fingers of his other hand were twitching faintly atop the fine red quilt.

“Percival?” Newt hazarded.

Percival looked up, and his face was harsh but his eyes were desperate.

“How can you trust me? After what he did as me?” Percival said, and there was a tremor in his voice. “After what I allowed him to do to you and Tina?”

Newt rose slowly and sat down next to Percival. He didn’t look up at him, at first, when he spoke. 

“What he did is not your fault,” Newt said. His voice was clear and measured.

“It was my job to stop him! My job, which he took and sabotaged!” Percival’s right hand had gone to grip his wand, his knuckles white. “He hurt countless people. He tried to murder you!” 

“He was perfectly capable of making the attempt wearing his own face,” said Newt indifferently. “I don’t think you can give your face any credit for that. It was convenient for Gellert to assume a position of authority. Your face had the added benefit of being strikingly handsome,” Newt gave Percival an unexpected, darting, lopsided smile and looked away. It was a fleeting expression, and warmth bloomed behind Percival’s sternum, a sensation akin to the heat of Ogden's Old Firewhisky. He craved it. But the feeling of guilt was stronger just then.

“In the subway tunnels, in that memory from before, he tortured you. How can you bear to look at me, let alone allow me to draw my wand near you?” Percival said. He looked pained at having to articulate these thoughts.

“Look,” Newt finally turned a steady gaze at Percival. His voice was raw and his unguarded gaze was bright. “You’re nothing like him, and his impersonation was a shoddy piece of acting. I honestly expected better,” Percival began to protest, but Newt interrupted. “No, listen. His Percival Graves was efficient and clever like you are, but he held no compassion for his colleagues or anyone around him. He saw people as pieces to use in a game of wizard’s chess. Lives were disposable and that’s just how he operates, because for him the ideal will justify all the casualties. You would never do that. You’re harsh but fair, Percival,” Newt met uncertain brown eyes with his own. “Your ideal is justice, and you won't sacrifice people to it because that contradicts what is just. And his eyes were cold and his expressions looked all wrong on your face, because his underlying philosophy, his habits of thinking, they were all wrong for the kind of person you are. That’s all he was – a fake, skating by on your hard-earned authority. The fake Percival Graves had nothing on the authentic one.”

Graves still looked uncertain, but a small smile hovered at his mouth at the end of Newt’s words. 

“What?” said Newt, suddenly self-conscious.

“I was recalling the inscription you wrote in my copy of your book,” Percival said. “You called me the authentic Percival Graves there, too.”

“Did I?” said Newt. “I suppose the difference was striking.”

“Strikingly handsome, did you say?” Percival returned.

Newt moved to rise, and Percival’s hand rose in an aborted gesture. Newt noticed and paused of his own volition.

“You must be well aware of the effect you have on others,” Newt said, frowning slightly.

“Oh?” said Percival, still hesitating to reach out. His brown eyes were shining with some barely restrained emotion. “What effect is that?” 

Newt winced.

“My sister tells me I’m a pedantic, bossy brat,” Percival said, taking pity on Newt, who looked up in surprise. 

“You have a sister?” he said.

Percival nodded.

“We don’t speak often. Which might have saved her life, come to think,” he reflected morbidly. “Morgana. Our parents were traditionalists,” he smirked. “She changed it to Margaret as soon as she was of age, little Margot. I was in Auror training by that time…”

“What does she do?” asked Newt. 

“Margot manages the inventory of medicinal potions in Johns Hopkins,” Percival said, “She’s always had a knack for Healing and Potions, but she was too young to be a nurse in the war, thank Merlin,” he sighed. “Didn’t stop her from trying to sign up. Age Line gave her a beard which she kept for two weeks to annoy our parents.”

“She sounds wonderful,” said Newt sincerely.

“She’s a menace,” Percival said, “though I suppose you’d relate. She darts around wildly, one passion project to the next – it’s what makes her an excellent Potioneer, but a terrible Healer. Her greatest dream since she was three years old has been to meet a unicorn. She’d be horribly jealous of you.”

“Maybe one day she can come to Scotland and I’ll introduce her,” said Newt with a faint smile, recalling the memory they had just shared. Percival paused. 

“Do I have something on my face?” said Newt.

Percival looked away and shook his head, then looked back up at Newt from beneath his hawkish brows.

“You don’t seem to be at all aware of the effect you have on others,” he said, his voice rolling from low in his chest and seeming to fill the compartment.

“I’m well aware most people find me irritating and inconvenient,” Newt said, mouth quirking down.

“Blind fools,” said Percival dismissively. The air between them was charged again, and Newt cleared his throat.

“Are you ready?” said Percival, glancing between Newt and his wand. Newt nodded but did not resume his recumbent position. Percival took in his sad, resigned expression and found that his left hand was resting on the shoulder seam of Newt’s wool jacket. Neither wizard seemed to register this, their gazes interlocked. 

“ _Legilimens_ ,” Percival breathed. And he found himself in a bizarre space, where tarps held moving landscapes and beasts roamed diverse habitats. He glimpsed a Thunderbird, three pairs of powerful wings making Newt’s fringe stand upright, the magizoologist bracing against a raging downpour and flashing lightning. A glimpse of the same creature chained and bolted to the ground, a whip whistling through the air, rainclouds massing above the camp in the desert. A willowy slip of a woman in a flowing blue dress and a veil obscuring her hair and most of her face was carrying a brown case, and her mannerisms looked familiar. The whip paused, the man distracted by the girl whose wand held an invisible umbrella above her head, and that was when the girl struck, Stunning him and Disarming the second guard. The Thunderbird reared in fright, but the girl was running up to it, coaxing it calm in a distinctly masculine voice… Then Newt was removing the veil to reveal the stubble on his jaw, his eyes painted with kohl and his features softened by a glamour, his teeth worrying his lip as he took in the damage done to the Thunderbird. Those dark-lined eyes were desperately gentle and then he was opening the case, promising the beast safety as he magically unlocked the restraints, the Thunderbird too injured to fly…

Percival lost his concentration on the spell, and the memory shifted. Newt’s features were softened by youth instead of a glamour; he looked to be at least a decade younger, his eyes dim with grief. A vial of a silvery substance stood on the desk in front of him. A younger Theseus, dressed in black tie and Ministry robes and looking like he’d just swallowed a Flobberworm, was shaking his head from the other side of the desk.

“…too dangerous and too unlikely. Besides, this is out of my jurisdiction. If the Americans had proof of Gaetano Reina’s trafficking it across the Atlantic, then they might investigate and put a stop to black market demand. There’s no way to go directly at the supply – these families are too well protected. They might be able to confiscate the product and make it less profitable…” 

The young Newt set his shoulders, his gaze shuttering. Percival recognized the expression; Newt had worn its equal when fighting off Grindelwald. It stirred something deep in Percival. The name also stirred his memories. He broke off the spell. 

Newt blinked at him, swaying slightly. Percival tightened the grip on his shoulder.

“Gaetano Reina,” Percival said, recalling the name. “I arrested Reina. It was one of my first cases,” he narrowed his eyes. Newt looked perplexed. “I got the evidence I needed from an anonymous source. My informant delivered an incriminating letter by _Golden_ _Snidget_.”

Newt’s mouth fell open, and he closed it and attempted to restore his previous, perplexed expression—to limited success. His frown looked like it was struggling not to be an uneasy smile.

“How unusual,” he said, his tenor voice drifting into a higher range. “They are endangered, a very rare species-”

Percival’s lips muffled the words on Newt’s. He tugged the magizoologist forward, finally burying his other hand in that auburn hair. Newt parted his lips and sighed into the kiss, his tongue sweeping across Percival’s bottom lip, his hands useless in his lap. The shared warmth was incandescent, and Percival felt a frisson of disbelief and gratitude. Newt tasted of tea and his magic was redolent of sunlight on fresh snow. Beneath the earthy freshness of early spring was the lingering impression of burning sage, and for some reason, of honey and then… was that bergamot? Percival’s senses sent mingled feedback to his mind, the taste and smell and feel of the other wizard a blend of new but familiar sensations that coalesced into a warm and thirsty tenderness swelling in the region of his sternum, but not only there.

Percival pulled away, dark eyes watchful of Newt’s reaction, but Newt chased his lips instinctively, his hands settling on the Auror’s waist, his eyes closing, his head tilting to slot their mouths together just so. Percival laughed into Newt’s mouth, relieved, and Newt tugged on his lip with his teeth and seemed to melt up against him. When they parted, the fondness in Percival’s eyes only increased Newt’s feelings of wonder.

“How was that?” said Percival, his gravelly voice rising from deep in his chest.

“Long overdue, I think,” said Newt, eyes bright and color rising across his cheekbones, hair deliciously disheveled.


	22. Dorcus and Bartholomew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the holidays can be a tough time. I hope you are well and that you hang in there. We can't all be off traveling on our lonesome like Newt, or set across country in a luxury train with Percival. But at least we might take such little voyages in our minds, and in this way alleviate some of the strain of the day-to-day.
> 
> this is a short update to tide you over, and it's not the most polished chapter, but there'll be more soon, at least! I also want to thank you for your kudos & comments -- that second one in particular brightens these short days and really bolsters me, and I am incredibly thankful to you for this <3

**Chapter 22** : (interlude) Dorcus and Bartholomew

 

Credence felt bereft without a case of fantastic beasts to care for. The week he had spent as primary caretaker for Newt’s beasts had instilled a new respect for the magizoologist in Credence. It had been grueling work. How Newt performed it with seeming effortlessness, with pleasure, even, was baffling. There were rewarding moments, to be sure, but the work left Credence sore, exhausted, and with four bitten fingers, courtesy of the new batch of baby Occamies. They were, he reflected, his least favorite. 

He still missed them.

But Kit had an exhaustive library, so he set to work, reading voraciously. Back with Mary Lou, Credence was allowed to read the Bible and the pamphlets detailing gruesome punishment for witchcraft, but little else. Newt’s case had several bookshelves-worth of books on a variety of subjects, including tattered old Charms and History of Magic textbooks, dense tracts on Transfiguration that were beyond Credence’s ken, and a plethora of books on Potions, Healing, and beasts. Newt had collected a fair variety of legends and fairytales, too. He said they generally contained at least a grain of truth—both Muggle and wizarding myths were often based off an idea or a creature that had existed before. Credence wasn’t so sure, but he rather enjoyed the strange magical children’s stories. He particularly favored Beedle’s _Fountain of Fair Fortune_ ; he felt a strange connection to Sir Luckless, the forlorn knight who had been dragged by the wrist into the magical garden and allowed to bathe in the fountain by the generous witches. Sir Luckless, who became fortunate through the generosity of others.

Sitting and reading in Kit’s apartment, where Willie dropped by with groceries and scolded Kit for not entertaining him, Credence learned rudimentary Latin. Newt had mentioned that incantations were based in _sacred languages_ , sources of knowledge throughout human history such as Ancient Greek and Latin, Hebrew and Sanskrit. Like Runes, languages held power, Newt had said—and Latin was the most popular source for incantations in modern Europe. Credence learned the cases and began to decline adjectives and nouns on scraps of parchment. These were in abundant supply around Kit’s apartment. Kit began to leave around books of Catullus, which Credence tried laboriously to translate and then blushed profusely when he began to succeed. 

Credence read history, too: he read of the Great War, which Newt had not mentioned except to say he had worked with dragons. There had followed a long digression about the existence of dragons, successfully derailing Credence’s questions of that time. Credence read about Defense Against the Dark Arts, and he read about Alchemy (though he didn’t understand much there—but he still tried!). He discovered that Arithmancy was not altogether different from Muggle mathematics, and that Astronomy was not his forte, and that Ancient Runes were a complete mystery that he did not want to explore further. 

Kit offered to tutor him at first, but Credence felt this would be an imposition. After a while, she began to notice his interests and relevant books would migrate and sometimes literally flap across the room to recommend themselves. Kit always shrugged and smiled when Credence looked at her quizzically.

They went out to eat together almost every day. Kit would cast several layers of glamour on him, and insist Willie and Queenie and sometimes Nicolas Flamel accompany them. Credence got used to predominantly female company again—though Kit and Willie and Queenie were nothing like Mary Lou. Credence’s favorite glamour of Kit’s was when she gave him short-cropped brown hair, hazel eyes and freckles. It reminded him a little of Newt. She insisted on a snub nose, which Credence tolerated with some embarrassment.

It was perhaps a week after Newt and Percival had left France when Kit, Willie, Queenie and Credence were eating _escargot_ in a café on the Montmartre. Credence was wearing the glamour, snub-nose and all. They had just ordered their food when Nicolas Flamel joined them, accompanied by none other than Albus Dumbledore.

Dumbledore ordered a cheese fondue for their table. Credence was sitting between Queenie and Kit, and Dumbledore and Flamel sat down at their circular table, Flamel next to Willie. They immediately began to speak in quiet and rapid French. There was an empty seat between Dumbledore and Kit.

“You did not anticipate an extra guest, so I shall chip in,” Dumbledore said to the rest of the table, smiling, blue eyes twinkling. Credence had never seen such twinkling eyes before. They reminded him a little of Occamy scales. He hoped this fellow wouldn’t be as eager to bite.

“No good on the political front,” said Dumbledore, shaking his head when Kit enquired. “Oh, excuse me, I failed to introduced myself. I’m Albus Dumbledore, Transfiguration Professor at Hogwarts. Do you attend Beauxbatons, Monsieur, or have you graduated?” he addressed Credence like an adult. Tina had been the first one to do this, and Newt had followed her example, but it still pleasantly surprised Credence when adults spoke with him as with an equal. He hated being talked down to. He was nearly of age according to wizarding standards, after all. 

“Good to meet you,” he said shyly. “I was homeschooled, actually.”

“This is, erm, Christopher Briebread,” said Kit, catching herself just in time. “He’s staying with us for a little while.”

“Ah, the young fellow traveling with Mr. Scamander,” said Dumbledore, his eyebrows shooting up. “It’s nice to meet you, _Christopher_.”

Credence had the distinct impression Dumbledore knew his real name. When the man winked at him, Credence nearly coughed up a snail.

“I was just reading up about the oldest American wizarding families, and their interactions with the Scourers,” Dumbledore said conspiratorially. “Did you know that the infamous Dorcus Twelvetrees fell in love with the Muggle Bartholomew Barebone? After a night of passion, he stole her wand and set off on the worst breach of the Statute of Secrecy since it was instituted. Poor Dorcus spent a year in jail and emerged a traumatized woman. No one would have anything to do with her. They passed Rappaport’s Law soon after, in 1790, and that was the end of Muggle and wizarding interactions in the United States. The rest, as they say, is history,” Dumbledore took a slice of bread and began to butter it.

“Are you suggesting that that _awful_ woman in New York was a witch descended of Dorcus and Bartholomew?” said Queenie, her eyes wide and concerned and fixed on Credence, who had gone pale.

“The thought had crossed my mind,” Dumbledore said, salting the buttered bread now. “But rather, I think she was a Squib in a long line of Squibs. It does occur, you know, when such intense hatred of magic might quell the very wellspring of magic itself: the soul, which is the seat of wonder…”

“That’s very sad,” said Credence hoarsely. “I pity her, then.”

“That is a very mature response, young man,” Dumbledore said, though the effect was somewhat spoiled by his chewing his salted, buttered bread. The waiters brought the fondue, then, and he was distracted once more.

Despite this compliment, the food seemed to turn to carpet in Credence’s mouth. He chewed, but nothing tasted right and his mouth felt dry and overfull at the smallest bite. He contented himself with sipping his watered-down wine and trying to be subtle in watching Dumbledore eat, waiting if he might continue the subject or explain why he had broached it in the first place.

Queenie tried and failed to distract Credence from his brooding thoughts. She brought up the Louvre, which they were planning to visit that afternoon, and the various places they might run into public intellectuals such as the bistro Café du Dôme, and its rival La Rotonde; the bars where famous American writers drunk themselves into at stupor or, alternately, punched the owners—in the Closerie de Lilas and Le Dingo. Credence would usually brighten at the chance to explore, but nothing seemed to appeal to him just then.

“I don’t know why he brought it up, sweetheart,” Queenie said, giving up, “But it’s been circling in your head nonstop. Why don’t you go ahead and ask him?"

But Credence shook his head stubbornly. At that moment, Dumbledore invited Flamel outside for a cigarette and made the briefest eye contact with Credence, tilting his head toward the door. Credence bolted up and followed the wizards, feeling a creeping déjà vu. The dark wizard impersonating Graves had lured him in a similar manner… but it seemed his friends trusted Dumbledore, and Credence was desperately curious. 

“There goes another one, drawn right into his orbit,” groused Kit, watching Dumbledore, Flamel, and Credence step out the back door of the café. Queenie rose to follow them, but Kit waved her back down. “No, no, find out after. If you start interfering with the greats, they’ll rub it in your face forever. Be patient. Women can manage that, hm?”

Queenie didn’t look reassured, so Kit asked for another glass of wine.

“They’re perfectly safe, dearie. My concern is rather Albus’s long game… but you’ve got sway with the young fellow, you and Mr. Scamander. You’ve been steering him fine so far.”

Queenie nodded, sipping her wine.

“Yes, Newt’s all but cured him. I didn’t think it was possible.”

“Nor did I,” said Kit thoughtfully. “Nor did I. It’s rude, isn’t it? They didn’t ask me to smoke. They just assume women don’t partake of opium-laced tobacco, don’t they?”

 

Credence opened the backdoor to find the two eminent wizards smoking from ornate pipes and fixing him with curious looks.

“Um,” he said.

“Christopher, my boy,” said Dumbledore, “Thank you for joining us! I wanted to have a word,” he gestured Credence closer. “Regarding Mary Lou Barebone. I understand this is a painful topic. However, I think you’ll find the news I have to share surprisingly agreeable. You see, after the incident of last winter, Mr. Scamander mentioned in passing that he had met a very strong, very unusual young wizard whom he suspected to be from an old line of American magic… he even asked to borrow a genealogy registry which I had, regrettably, leant out. Mr. Scamander is not usually interested in such matters, so I grew curious. But the genealogy of British wizards is very carefully maintained in records—American Mormons have analogous records, but they are mostly Muggles and so, you see… there’s some difficulty with records of American magic.”

Credence nodded along, though he had never paused to think about such things as registries. Newt had explained once that certain wizards came from old families and thought much of bloodlines, but he had made it clear to Credence that he felt it was an outdated and vile prejudice.

But Newt had a family and came from old magic. Credence often wondered what had happened to his family, and if he might not have become host to an Obscurial if they had brought him up like a magical child. He tried not to imagine the childhood and upbringing, the magical education he could have had. He knew he should be grateful Newt had saved him, but it still rankled. It probably always would.

Dumbledore was still speaking.  
  
“In the course of my research, as it often happens with scholars, I uncovered the answers to an entirely different set of questions. I could not find your ancestors directly, Christopher, but I did find that the Barebones have squirreled away quite a fortune in US dollars across a variety of Muggle banks.”

“I’m sorry,” said Credence, when Dumbledore paused. “But what does this have to do with me?”

“Well, you are Mary Lou’s eldest adopted child,” Dumbledore said, as though it was obvious what this meant. “She didn’t leave behind a will, and American law of inheritance is clear. There will be some Muggle tax, perhaps, but I’m sure it will not be significant. Christopher, my boy, you are a very wealthy young man. And your birthday is coming up – your seventeenth, yes? Which means you will be of age, according to wizarding law in Britain and France.” 

“And America,” Flamel added, exhaling a ring of smoke from his meerschaum pipe. Dumbledore nodded his thanks and took a puff of his pipe.

“Hmm, I was not sure about that one,” Dumbledore nodded. “In other words, you come into possession of a fine fortune at the end of this month,” Dumbledore’s blue eyes twinkled. “In fact, I’ve brought a form which I will leave with you. It will authorize me to hire a goblin to transfer the funds into Gringotts on your behalf. That’s the wizarding bank in London, you know.”

“Goblins?” said Credence, his eyes wide.

“They are, what do Muggles call them? They manage wizarding money,” said Dumbledore, “and run our banks. Newt hasn’t told you? A-counters?”

“Accountants,” said Credence.

“Quite right,” said Dumbledore brightly. “Feel free to owl me that form as soon as your birthday, and I will get that sorted for you—if you like. Consider it a coming-of-age present. It is ironic, how these things turn out.”

“Ironic?” said Credence, feeling like a particularly dim-witted parrot.

“It was the Scourer’s money, saved for generations to be used to expose and destroy wizards and magic. And at last, it will be converted into wizarding money and used to aid a wizard: you. I wish I could deliver such news to every orphaned wizard I meet,” Dumbledore sighed. “Everyone deserves a chance at such a start in the wizarding world. Any world is difficult without family and funds.”

“I’ve got Newt,” said Credence, without thinking.

Dumbledore’s face softened, then.

“That you do,” he said. “We’re lucky to have Newt. I wonder how he’s getting along. Perhaps I’ll send him an owl, and that way we might hear back from him?”

Credence smiled. He rather liked this Dumbledore fellow.


	23. Pilfered Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well this is the update you really wanted, right? so let's make it a double. cos it's been a rough week <3
> 
> the "murder on the orient express" cameo in this chapter is the cake

**Chapter 23** : Pilfered Gold

 

Percival was not a man easily distracted, and yet he failed to maintain his usual vigilance over dinner. He had set out to keep an eye on the entirety of the dining car, but as he enjoyed the baked haddock and the conversation, his eyes were drawn to the wizard sitting opposite him: to the expressive tilt of a full bottom lip, to the clever gleam of blue-green eyes, to the play of candlelight across freckled skin.

“Well, they aren’t as long-lived as owls, are they, Snidgets?” Newt was saying, fiddling with his fork and the spinach at its end. “Not much point training them for post delivery. And you have to shrink anything you give them to deliver, due to their size.”

“Can it undertake a journey across the Atlantic?” said Graves, furrowing his brow.

Newt’s expression turned mischievous.

“Not independently. I snuck that one through the Ministry’s international Floo network, after visiting Theseus,” he said, “Was going to get it back, but Augustus caught me and demoted me to the Office for House Elf Relocation for a month. I always felt awful for abandoning that Snidget, though,” Newt looked out at the far lights of a farmhouse in the dark landscape beyond the train window, moving past and vanishing in the gloom.

“You may be pleased to hear that I kept the Snidget,” said Graves, polishing off the last of his dinner. “Gave it to Margot, actually. It lived a happy and full life fluttering madly around her apartment. We’d never seen a Snidget before, and this one would eat out of her hand…” Percival recalled Margot’s pleasure at the gift. She had squealed for joy at the sight of the rotund little bird.

“That’s excellent,” Newt said, his face lighting up. Percival didn’t think he would get tired of this expression. Newt looked back down at his baked haddock, which he had ignored, and the spinach and the bread roll, which he proceeded to make short work of.

“You mentioned the Order of the Golden Dawn, before,” said Percival in an undertone. “I am no member, but they are active in America and I’ve heard a little about their workings. It’s a fairly secretive organization, but I understand there are three ranks, and even nomajs might be admitted to the first. The higher orders specialize in alchemy and in ritual magic involving various forms of Divination. I suspect the bookshop owner, Wilhelmina, might be a Chief of the Parisian contingent, along with Flamel,” Percival paused. Newt took a sip of his wine and set his plate aside, half-uneaten.

“Do you,” Percival began, and cut himself off.

“Hmm? Oh, I eat meat,” Newt said, noticing Percival’s gaze. A member of the train staff took his plate, and another offered them a tray of desserts. Newt eyed them all curiously and Percival watched him choose a drizzled caramel cake, and ask for tea.

“My beasts do, and I would not deprive them of their dietary requirements,” he continued. “But I like to know where it comes from. Killing other creatures to survive can be necessary…but I believe it should be done responsibly, and without undue violence or pleasure. Would you like some cake?”

Percival shook his head and then took a dainty spoonful anyway.

“Please go on,” Newt said. “I didn’t know any of this about the Golden Dawn. Willie and Flamel?”

“I am only sharing my suspicions over our shared dessert,” said Percival wryly. “Did you know that the symbol of the Order is the Rose Cross? It became too recognizable to the nomaj, and the London headquarters chose a more obscure symbol: a golden bird. Apparently the nomajs began to mistake it for a rotund, yellow canary.”

“That’s a curious coincidence,” said Newt, recalling Flamel’s words. Percival arched a brow and Newt elaborated. “Muggles who work in mines are often killed by pockets of toxic gases which might suffocate them, or ignite from their torches. They came up with an ingenious, if rather cruel solution: they would bring a caged canary down into the dark underground with them. Canaries are sensitive to these gases, and their song would be an indicator that all was well. As long as the creature was singing, the miners were safe. If the canary grew silent, the miners knew to flee the poison air, which had killed their no-longer living alarum. ”

“Ah, a one-use system,” said Percival.

“Quite,” Newt agreed, frowning. “But Flamel said something to me when we left WICA…” he thought back, “About Kit’s watch, and canaries, about silence as a warning, and gold heralding the morning?”

“Has the watch been ticking?” asked Graves, suddenly recalling his Sneakoscope. He dug about in his coat pocket and withdrew the small, dark top. It lay motionless on his hand, and he sighed and put it away into his jacket-pocket instead. He had forgot to bring it with him over breakfast, when he had left it in his coat-pocket in their compartment. Gazing about the room, Percival saw the middle-aged British woman, still jotting notes over dinner, the Dutch couple picking at their food, a pair of French women traveling together, their conversation growing more heated as they consumed more wine.

Newt bent down so that his ear nearly touched his knees, listening to his watch.

“It’s ticking,” he said, “Though the time is unchanged.”

He flipped it open to check, and saw a glittering reflection of something gold in it, and a black tail. He squinted and the glare abated, and the time read 11:49, as before.

“I think it’s broken,” he muttered. “But I should check on Horace…”

“On whom?” said Percival, now eyeing the waitstaff suspiciously.

Newt took the last bite of cake and threw back his cooling tea.

“One of the beasts,” Newt said, looking to Percival’s side of the table. The Auror had finished eating and was nursing a whiskey. “If you’d like to have another drink, I’ll be a little while doing the evening round. And then, if you are amenable, we might resume practicing?”

“After dinner? I fear we will exhaust your mind if we keep this up,” said Percival. Newt wasn’t sure if the tone was teasing.

“Unless you’d care to accompany me?” said Newt hesitantly, and immediately regretted it. “Not that you should, I mean, I understand if you’re averse to the idea of stepping into a magically expanded space with diverse array of less-than-legal beasts, but perhaps…”

Percival knocked back his drink and tilted his head and waited patiently for Newt to fall silent.

“I was wondering if you would ever show me your magical menagerie. Tina, Queenie and Jacob have given me an earful over the past year,” Percival gave a self-deprecating little smile. “I admit, I’m curious to see where you’ve been disappearing to.”

Newt’s surprise turned to a pleased quirk of his lips.

“Right this way, then, Percival,” Newt said, ducking his head and looking pleased. They left the dining car quickly, heading for their compartment. Newt set the case on the floor between the beds. After they had secured the wards on their compartment, Newt licked his lips and began to apologize for the mess.

“Your creatures are going to starve soon,” Percival said, and Newt gave a nervous smile and disappeared down the ladder to his case, waving Percival to follow.

 

“How long did these Undetectable Expansion Charms take?” said Percival, turning slow circles in place outside of Newt’s somewhat dilapidated, herb-smelling shed.

“Not as long as some of my more detailed illustrations,” Newt muttered, hauling buckets of meat and rice he had prepared that morning and Charmed to remain fresh. Percival strode after him, mindful of enormous dung beetles and the uneven, grassy ground of the meadow which he recognized from a fragmented memory of Newt’s during their attempts at Occlumency that day. The sky was vividly blue and striped with distant cirrus clouds, and the smell of pine and hay permeated the air.

“This is intricate Charmwork,” Percival observed, bending down to pluck a stray daffodil. Newt was emptying the buckets into a trough, working quickly, his sleeves hiked up to reveal his scarred forearms. Percival watched him work and could not fault the view.

“I won’t call them over now, don’t want to startle them with new smells. We’re already traveling and they get nervy at changes in longitude,” Newt said to himself, shaking off his hands and grabbing the empty buckets lightly to return to the shed. He emerged again with an entire shank of raw beef in a larger bucket, his arms straining to carry it.

“Some beasts don’t care for too much magic ’round their food, especially ones who’ve encountered poachers,” Newt explained, when Percival moved to levitate the meal. “Nancy’s a real darling, but maybe stay here? Wizards are really quite prejudiced against her, in my experience… Jacob was the bravest by far of anyone who’s met Nance.”

Percival followed Newt at a distance and forced himself to take several deep breaths when he discovered that yes, Nancy was indeed a Nundu, poison-sacs bristling at her jaw, ears slotted back against her head. Nancy eyed Percival and then obliged Newt and let him pet her across the nose, and snuffed – the poison-sacs inflated! – and sneezed (Percival held his breath, watching Newt with some terror), and then she nosed at her meal, took it into her wide jaws and slunk off with it.

“Ah, yes,” Newt said, spotting Percival and approaching him, looking hale and healthy. He grinned his lopsided grin and Percival tried to relax his face.

“She’s quite healthy now, but I need to go back to the east of Africa to let her loose, and I fear she’s gotten much too used to my feeding her,” Newt said, graciously allowing Percival time to recover. “Why don’t we visit the Mooncalves now? Jacob still gushes on about them… They’re really attached to Credence, too, and I think they enjoy meeting new people despite their shy nature…”

Percival seemed to partake of the same joyous wonder that had painted Jacob’s face when Newt had showed him the Mooncalves. This was a pleasing discovery for Newt, who had grown used to Percival’s unflappable demeanor, and rather enjoyed ruffling the Auror’s feathers.

“They are really all very sweet,” said Newt, giving Percival a handful of levitating pellets. “Though of course it’s more obvious with the Mooncalves,” he sighed. The cool light of the artificial moon limned Percival’s features with silver-white, highlighting the black of his brows and hair, the elegantly tailored lines of his suit.

He watched Percival feed the Mooncalves and wondered what it might be like, to travel with a capable Auror, to brush his fingers through that glossy black hair until the pomade was gone and the strands were soft and loose, to be held by warm arms and looked at with that strange fondness each evening… a Mooncalf wandered up to him, nudging his hands, and Newt released a handful of pellets to bob and float level with his chest. The Mooncalf shuffled its hooves and craned its fluffy neck to get at the feed.

But Percival was only going to accompany him to the Reservation. He should not pin his hopes on anything more, should not ruin what he could enjoy now by worrying about tomorrow… still, Newt could not help but worry. He worried about the dragons, about his dreams of Grindelwald and Ignotus, about Percival and the kisses they had shared, and about his utter incompetence in Occlumency. He worried for his beasts, and for Percival’s reactions to them—though the latter worry was abating. About the werewolves back in Paris who would be hunted by Grimsditch, and about the mysterious Order of the Golden Dawn and what interest they might have in him or his creatures. He was so caught up in thinking about things he ought not be worrying about but was that Newt jumped when a pair of warm hands came to rest on his shoulders from behind and turned him slowly to face their owner.

“Don’t you float off, too,” Percival said gently, in that rumbling low voice that seemed to turn Newt’s legs to jelly.

Newt blinked at him in the low light. The moonlight really did render him unreasonably handsome, casting his eyes into shadow to complete the image of an unattainable and mysterious gentleman. Newt brought his hands to rest atop Percival’s wrists, and slid them slowly up his arms. He could feel the whipcord contours of warm muscle through the cotton of Percival’s shirt. He lowered his hands, sighing, and made to step back but tripped over a Mooncalf and found himself entangled in a pink-leafed Berberis hedge.

The Mooncalf squeaked and snuffed at Newt, and a laughing Percival peeked into the hedge to find an equally flushed, self-conscious magizoologist chuckling into Mooncalf kisses.

Percival offered him a hand, and Newt nearly managed to pull him down into the hedge, too, but Percival changed his stance and Newt was hoisted to his feet despite his best efforts. The momentum carried him a breath closer to the Auror than he had intended, and he paused, breathless from laughter, flushed and embarrassed and wanting this warmth of contact to last whilst fearing it could not.

“Will you stay while I find the missing dragons?” Newt said quietly. His voice sounded strangely pleading to his ears, and he winced.

“I’ve never actually seen a dragon,” Percival said. “But it seems there are criminals to catch, and missing dragons to find. And luckily, our fields of expertise make us the men for the job. But even if you were questing for a rare species of Flobberworm, I would accompany you, Newt. By your leave,” Percival raised his hands to Newt’s shoulders once more.

“If you will have me?” Newt said, repeating Percival’s words from earlier.

Percival smirked, and his eyes glittered.

“All that you are willing to give,” he said, and Newt got the impression that Percival wielded that low voice with full awareness of its effect. “But I think your beasts still need feeding, first?”

Newt resumed breathing with an effort, and then his hands were brushing through that sleek hair, palms encouraging Percival forward, and he was meeting Percival’s mouth with his own. Graves tasted of whiskey. Newt had wondered if the kiss before had been a lapse, but Percival did not seem at all hesitant now, fingers digging into Newt’s shoulders and his tongue becoming familiar with Newt’s mouth. When they broke apart, Newt found himself clutching Percival’s lapels while Percival had entwined a hand in his hair, always hands in his hair. 

“Did you have other creatures to feed tonight?” Percival repeated considerately, if hoarsely, into Newt’s ear. Newt shivered at the warm breath, anticipation and hunger combining into a heady dizziness. Percival was right.

But Percival was also scraping the shell of his ear with his teeth and a warm tongue, and Newt buried his face into Percival’s neck, exhaling a laugh. He mouthed at the juncture of neck and shoulder beneath that starched collar, and elicited a promising shudder from the Auror. Percival’s hand tightened in Newt’s hair when the magizoologist bit lightly at the spot, and then laved it with his tongue. Newt arched his neck in the grip, hissing, surprised to find pleasure in the manhandling. Percival set upon his exposed throat, exploring the thrumming pulse and the sweat-tasting jawline, drawing short, breathy moans from Newt.

Percival pulled back, letting go of Newt’s hair, surveying the half-wrecked magizoologist with some smugness.

“Creatures to feed?” Newt echoed in a breaking voice, and cleared his throat. “I sincerely hope that wasn’t a euphemism, Graves,” he said dryly, shrugging back and turning away. He did not manage to suppress a sly smile, or hide the blush staining his cheekbones and ears.

“Minx,” said Percival, laughter in his voice.

“None of those, I’m afraid,” Newt called over his shoulder. “But there are Occamies this way.”

They were both distracted when they visited the Occamies, after which Newt introduced Percival to Dougal. The Auror seemed relieved when he realized that Dougal was a Demiguise and not some dead friend from Newt’s past.

“You called his name when you awoke,” Percival said. “Does he undertake to rouse you often, then?”

“They’re prescient, to a degree,” Newt said, shoveling dung into a wheelbarrow which rolled off toward the dung beetles on its own. He frowned and stretched his back, which seemed to pain him as he worked. “Demiguises are. Dougal wakes me if he senses I’m about to be needed. Everyone is fairly calm now, but we’ve had tussles, unfortunately. It takes time to acclimate, for some beasts, and others don’t like the scent or sound of certain neighbors. I’ve had to step in when the Graphorns and Nancy had a territorial dispute.”

Newt flushed his hands with a stream of water from his wand, wielding it ambidextrously, and then ran wet hands over his sweaty face and through his hair, mussing it further.

“There’s Horace again,” Newt said, indicating the gold-encrusted burrow where the Niffler was wriggling, as though to polish the hoarded gems and silver spoons with his fur.

“Queenie said he’s stolen something new, so let’s have a look to be sure there isn’t anything dangerous, or anything that the Muggles will especially miss…” Newt said. The cadence of his voice was soothing. Percival reflected that Newt was far more accustomed to speaking to the creatures than to humans. Horace tried to burrow further into his nest, but no luck; Newt grabbed him deftly by the back paws and had him dangling upside-down with a flick of the wrist. Horace twisted indignantly in Newt’s grip.

“Come on, let go,” Newt insisted, bringing a hand to tickle a spot on the Niffler’s belly near what appeared to be a pouch. Percival found himself gaping at the volume of jewelry and shiny knick-knacks which Newt’s tickling released from the pouch. Metal and jewels fell, clanging and ringing, as the Niffler wheezed and squeaked and growled. Newt let him go, and he ran off into the leaves of undergrowth near the Occamy nest, shooting disgruntled looks back at the wizards. A small pile of the stolen and shiny treasures remained at their feet. Newt winced and shifted his posture, pain shooting through his healing back.

“Right,” Newt clucked, picking at the pile. He took out a small gold dagger, frowning, and a glass brooch with a sharp fastening, and his hand paused above a gold ring inset with a large black stone. That ring. Where had he seen it before?

“Wait!” Percival cried, eyes falling on the symbol set into the dark stone. He covered Newt’s hovering hand with his own, and raised his wand over the ring.

“Standard procedure to ascertain it isn’t cursed,” Percival said quietly, running magical diagnostics on the pilfered ring. When garden-variety spells yielded no positive results, Percival advanced to more esoteric realms of dark magic.

“Horace must have got it from the Muggle pawnshop in Paris. Queenie told me he ran off while I slept,” Newt said, gazing thoughtfully at Percival’s wandwork. “The same places that were broken into by Grindelwald’s followers whilst werewolves terrorized the city…I thought they were a distraction for _something_ …” 

“Whatever this is, Grindelwald was searching for it,” said Percival, lowering his wand. “No curses indicated,” he said, and let go of Newt’s hand, and reached out to take the ring.

 


	24. Chased Silver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo! Things have got really busy again, so updates will be more sporadic. I'm a few chapters ahead but I'm afraid it's going to be once a week. At best. And with some effort. But thank you for the feedback, as always, it is encouraging and friendly and generous and I'm so glad you're along for the ride. 
> 
> Last chapter on the train, this one.

**Chapter 24** : Chased Silver

 

“Careful!” Newt exclaimed, but nothing happened. Percival picked up and examined the ring, the triangle, circle and line set into the dark stone. 

“It can’t be a Hallow, can it?” Percival said, squinting. “That would be far too convenient.”

“Foolish,” Newt muttered, “ _inconvenient_ pilfering pest! I told him to keep his paws off what doesn’t belong to him. For years I’ve been telling him!”

“I wonder,” Percival said, “It could just be a bauble of sentimental value, I suppose, but I do not think it likely to be a coincidence. The insignia is that of the Hallows, as Ignotus said. Do we take the original meaning of the symbol, or is it a trinket of Grindelwald’s supporters?”

Newt’s hand had gravitated to rest on his back again, as though it was paining him.

“A simple trinket would probably not withstand dragon-fire,” said Newt casually, “Whilst I imagine a Hallow would? I could ask Ignotus upon our next encounter…”

“You do that,” said Percival, wrapping the ring in a handkerchief and pocketing it. “And let me know what he says.”

Their gazes met, Percival harried and suspicious, Newt anxious and frowning. Newt grinned first, and then they were laughing nervously.

“It can’t be the stone itself, can it? It would be simple enough to find out,” Newt said, after catching his breath. Percival shook his head. 

“You said the second brother went mad when he used it. I think in this case, dragon-fire is the safer alternative.” 

Newt bit his lip and Percival’s gaze turned steely.

“If you say so,” Newt conceded. “I suppose resurrecting the dead isn’t my field. Best stick to preventing extinctions.”

“Theseus faced a great number of _Inferi_ in the second battle of the Somme,” said Percival. “He spoke of it only once, when incredibly drunk. I would rather avoid necromancy of any kind, even that out of children’s tales.”

Newt nodded, frowning, and took the gold dagger and brooch toward the shed. Percival followed him, peeking beyond various tarps leading to different biomes with different flora and fauna, weather-controlled and indistinguishable from the wilds save for the faintly flapping dividers. Newt made preparations for his next rounds whilst Percival poked and prodded the tarps, fascinated by their enchantment.

He waited until they were sitting up in their compartment before bringing them up with Newt. 

“I noticed you manage the transitions between habitats with enchanted tarps?” Percival said, taking a delicate sip of tea. He generally preferred coffee, but the European kind was rather different from his usual fare.

“I got the idea from Muggle moving pictures,” Newt said. “I mean, their pictures don’t usually move, right? So they invented cinema, moving pictures, and they project them-”

“I am aware of nomaj films,” Percival groused.

“Oh, right,” said Newt, “Well, I thought it a lovely solution to create an illusion of space. The creatures are naturally averse to confinement, especially after any experiences with humans,” he paused, a pained expression flitting across his face. He schooled his features to neutrality. “That is, this way they still have space to roam but I can demarcate boundaries and pass through them easily. They usually prefer to keep to their habitats—I tailor them to their preferences and comfort, of course.”

“Your Occlumency might benefit from a similar strategy, I think,” said Percival, considering Newt. “You don’t need to focus on nothing, whatever that might entail, so much as you ought to create a refuge in your mind. Much like you create these refuges in your case,” Percival raised his brows pointedly. “Then you simply hide the boundary—your enchanted tarps—and the person invading your mind finds themselves unable to navigate beyond this refuge. You might hide yourself in this manner, too.”

Newt was looking at his case with a slightly vacant stare.

“It shouldn’t be terribly difficult after you’ve had so much practice,” Percival went on, wondering if he had lost the magizoologist’s attention. “I imagine you’ll be very capable of a slightly adapted form of Occlumency, then. Newt?”

“That is brilliant,” Newt said, beaming at Percival. “I can’t quite remember the details of that dream, but Ignotus had a similar theory, I think. Might we try it now?”

Percival looked between Newt’s hopeful expression and the darkness outside the window, where frost glazed the outer pane in an ornate mosaic, and shrugged helplessly.

“When you are ready, then. _Legilimens_.”

He was walking through a marshy landscape, a cucumber with his name carved into it gripped in his left hand and his case in his right. The locals had hinted this might work with zucchini, too, but Newt would experiment another time. His wand was in his pocket—it would not do to appear threatening.

The reeds ahead whispered and Newt spotted a scaly flank, and tossed the Kappa the cucumber. The Kappa caught it in its monkey-like paw and read the name on it in a squeaky voice.

“Nice to meet you,” said Newt, inclining his head. The Kappa did not fall for the trick—it kept upright, refusing to spill the water from the basin on its head. Newt noticed Percival’s dark eyes, then. He had been training to notice the intrusion all day. The Kappa crunched on the cucumber with razor-sharp teeth.

Newt focused on his case, and imagined the memory was a habitat. He squinted, making the air ripple where he visualized a tarp might be. It took concentration, and time. The Kappa was approaching him with curiosity, now, tilting its head at him. Some of its precious water sloshed onto his boots and it cursed vividly and jumped away.

Newt imagined reaching forward and drawing the tarp to the side to reveal a desert, Frank’s old habitat. Then he raised his hand into the air and drew the landscape back. He sidestepped Percival’s eyes on his mind, and felt the harsh sunlight on his face. The smell of the air changed, and Newt grinned, and Percival broke the spell.

“Excellent,” Percival breathed, eyes alight at their first success. 

* * *

Flush with his progress at Occlumency, Newt vanished to finish the evening round in his case. By the time he emerged with a thick sheaf of parchment under his arm, a stubby pencil between his teeth, and Pickett clinging to his ear, it was nearing midnight. He set his work down, took the pencil from his mouth, and turned to pour a cup from the teapot Percival had Charmed to remain hot.

Percival’s clothing was folded neatly on the top bunk, and he was laying on his back with the quilt draped over his shoulders and Newt’s book open and half-buried beneath his pillow. His breathing was slow and regular. It was strange, seeing Percival without his layers of black and white formalwear, asleep and unguarded. Graves’s head was tilted back, exposing a long stretch of pale throat, the tendons extended and shifting with each deep breath. Dark eyelashes rested against the circles beneath his eyes, and his lips were slightly parted. The angle of his reclining head accented the line of his jaw, and Newt flipped over his anatomical sketch of the Flitterby to try and capture the lines and curves of Percival’s bone structure, the understated cleft in his chin, the relaxed crow’s feet, the slight upward curve of his nose… He had lit a candle to avoid flooding the compartment with electric light. Newt’s eyes flicked between Percival’s sleeping face and his chiaroscuro sketch. The tea grew cold.

Newt paused with his pencil in the air, and then he set his sketch aside and reached into Percival’s folded clothes to withdraw a small bundle wrapped in a handkerchief. He pocketed this, and shot Percival a furtive look, and steeled himself. He disappeared into his case, then, and did not emerge until later in the night. When he did, his eyes were red, and his breath unsteady. He put the bundle back into Percival’s clothes with shaky hands, and sat back down onto his own bed. He was pale and weary, but his eyes softened when they landed on Percival’s sleeping form, and on his sketch, which he folded and pocketed. Newt opened a small leather-bound journal, then, twin to that of Theseus – though where his brother took notes on legal proceedings, Newt’s journal housed sketches of Chizpurfles and Bundimuns. He took up his pencil and began to annotate a magnified illustration of a Snidget, labeling the eyes as “glistening & jewel-like” and reminding himself to “make a note of rotational joints in wings, which enable uncanny quickness and maneuverability in flight.” 

Percival’s breathing shifted, and Newt’s pencil paused. The breaths became harsher and more frequent. Newt frowned, waiting for the rhythm to shift back to the slow and steady breathing he had grown used to. But Percival’s breathing grew more labored, and he began to toss.

Newt knew from experience that waking a fellow wizard from a nightmare could be tricky business. Credence’s magic had lashed out and tossed Newt into the wall of his shed, and once, memorably, as far as the Occamy nest. The bites had been rather painful, and calming the Occamies and a guilty Credence took Newt the rest of the night. Newt set aside his parchment and knelt near Percival, squinting in the dim light. He hesitated. When Percival began to moan and mutter in his sleep, Newt’s hand moved of its own accord to the Auror’s wrist. His pulse fluttered too fast, moisture gathering on Percival’s palms and temples.

“Percival?” Newt said softly. “Love, it’s only a dream. It can’t hurt you now. Percival?”

Percival jerked awake, his wand flying instantly into his right hand, his eyes wide and dazed. His magic did indeed lash out, but only to give everything in his vicinity a sharp shove _away_. At the same time, his left hand had come to grasp Newt’s hand, which had been resting on his pulse. The result was that the blanket, book, pillow, and Newt himself were thrown—but Newt was jerked back by the wrist, feeling rather like a rubber band. Percival recognized the magizoologist and released his grip quickly, cursing. The candle had clattered to the floor, sending drops of wax flying across Newt’s papers.

“Mercy Lewis... Newt?” Percival groaned, struggling to get his breathing under control. Newt lit the electric lamp.

“Would you like some tea?” said Newt, pouring it without waiting for a response. He was relieved the teapot had not been in the radius of Percival’s defenses. Percival turned away to face the wall as he gathered himself, and Newt waited.

“Did I wake you?” said Percival hoarsely, after some time. Newt shook his head and then realized Percival couldn’t see him.

“No, no, I was, uh, working,” he said. “Been sleeping far too much, anyway,” he smiled uneasily. Percival had not turned around, and Newt perched onto the side of his bed.

At this, Percival peered over his shoulder quizzically. Newt tugged on the quilt, and Percival frowned but followed the suggestion, sitting up next to Newt, who was then thoroughly distracted by his view of a hairy, muscled chest and pale arms. Newt cleared his throat and draped the quilt across Percival’s shoulders.

Percival gave a wan smirk. 

“Here,” Newt said gracelessly, pressing the hot tea into Percival’s hands. “Hold on,” Newt opened his case and summoned a flask.

Percival made a satisfied sound in the back of his throat when Newt splashed a generous quantity of clear liquid from the flask into his tea.

“Hot toddy,” Newt said, “Drink up, love.”

Percival drank deep and then let out a weary sigh, the tension draining from his shoulders as he exhaled.

“I’m not entirely sure,” Newt started, hesitantly holding a hand over Percival’s shoulder. “That is, if you need to talk? Or anything else? Please tell me what you need,” he concluded desperately, staring into his lap, feeling the warmth of Percival’s leg where they sat side-by-side.

Percival’s lips quirked up at the effort.

“Time, I think,” Percival sighed. His dark hair hung lank and loose about his forehead, and his eyes were tired and slightly haunted.

Incapable of fulfilling such abstract requests, Newt checked the time on his watch instead: “Oh, it’s changed. It’s five to, now,” he muttered. “And…” he knelt down, “why isn’t it ticking? Oh, it is, but very softly. How odd.”

Percival narrowed his eyes and reached for the pocket of his folded jacket to withdraw a small, spinning top, which was buzzing quietly. With an effort, Percival broke through the fog in his mind and forced himself to think about the slippery and forgettable blonde. 

“Newt, did you recognize the young witch who took breakfast with us in the dining car?” Percival asked suddenly.

“Hm? Oh, she did look familiar. I think,” Newt paused. The memories were clouded. “I _think_ she was at my reading? But it’s difficult to remember her. Which is strange, because she seemed very vain, somehow.”

“She was at WICA, too, I’m sure she was,” Percival muttered. “There must be some sort of Notice-Me-Not variational glamour. I don’t usually forget faces… we’re being followed, then, as I thought.”

“But how? And why?” said Newt, licking his lips. “You chose this train last night. How did she find us? And why would she need to follow us? Is it the ring?”

“Perhaps,” said Percival, looking at Newt with consternation. “There’s another thing. That memory, Grindelwald reading you poetry… It’s been bothering me. Is there anything that you took that might have a tracking jinx? I’m assuming it’s not the watch from Kit, here, which might be naïve,” Percival frowned. “Anything of Grindelwald’s?”

“He gave me his cloak which I had put a tracking jinx on,” Newt said, “And I have…I have…” he seemed lost for words, but he donned his blue coat and pulled a chased silver fountain pen from his pocket, gaping at it. “How could I be so _incredibly_ foolish?”

“It’s enchanted,” Percival said at once. “I saw the memory and forgot at once. I suspect it’s related to our strikingly forgettable young lady,” he waved his wand over the pen, which glowed a vivid orange.

“That is a very strong Notice-Me-Not Charm,” Percival said, eyebrows rising. “Our culprit may be Grindelwald himself. Dammit! I should have seen this sooner…”

“Which makes the yellow-haired witch an agent for Grindelwald,” said Newt, unease clouding his expression.

“We must not let on that we know,” said Percival, matter-of-factly. Newt had to admire his calm.

“Where are we now?” he said, face turning to the darkness outside the window. “Hungary or Rumania? Bulgaria?”

“No idea,” Percival replied, with a thin, mirthless smile. “But we need to be nowhere. We need to disappear.”

Newt took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Then he met Percival’s gaze with resolve and a downward twist of his mouth.

“Disappearing happens to be my specialty.”


	25. Beneath the Library

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks as always for the kudos, especially for the comments, and for everything else, too. I think I owe you a chapter? But as I said, updates will continue to be slooow. I've finished 28, now, at last... and there's quite a bit to go. Though I think we all prefer the journey to the destination? ;)
> 
> our fellows leave the train but things don't go exactly to plan (do they ever?)

**Chapter 25** : Beneath the Library

 

“I’ve never traveled on the Orient Express before,” Newt was saying into the collar of his coat. They had wrapped themselves tightly against the wintry wind that swept across the open platform. Both wizards were Disillusioned to blend into the brick and stone, into the pale beginnings of dawn in the East and the shadows of metal columns and old streetlamps. “But the next stop should be Varna, the resort city on the Black Sea. From there, the passengers take a ferry to Istanbul. Varna is where our trail will vanish.”

The chased silver fountain pen was lodged into the window frame of their compartment, and would ride off to Varna on the Orient Express. Percival and Newt walked quickly along the windy platform, leaving two sets of boot prints in a thin layer of snow. Newt twisted around and waved his wand, and the footprints were swept away beneath rippling lines of wind that carved the snow into waves, like a receding tide on a sandy beach.

“I thought of planting the tracking jinx on one of the passengers, but our stalker will be aware of our absence by then,” Percival said, his low voice nearly lost to the wind.

Newt had stuffed one hand in his pocket, grasping his wand, but the hand holding his case grew steadily numb. They walked silently save for the crunching of snow beneath their feet along the train platform of the Gara de Nord. The trainyard resembled a square warehouse of the kind Percival might raid for illegal activity in New York. Newt pulled him behind a closed souvenir stall, a cold hand suddenly tugging at Percival’s, and shot him a pointed gaze. Then Percival was whisked away in Side-Along Apparition, the world squeezing and pressing in on him and then expanding again to different surroundings. Percival took in several lungfuls of cold air before he could compose himself.

“Mercy Lewis, Scamander! Do you know how to ask for permission? That was the most abrupt Apparition I’ve ever experienced.”

“I find it more expedient to ask forgiveness?” said Newt with a shifty half-smile. Percival glared at him, but it was for show. “Also, this way we avoid foot traffic?”

“Where are we?” said Percival gruffly, turning to take in the statue of a bearded man on horseback, the building beyond a large, ornate structure of white marble with black domes and spires. They stood in a square in the center of the old city, but the pre-dawn hour meant the place was unusually empty.

“King Carol the first,” said Newt, unnecessarily, for the statue was inscribed in large letters. “Funded and commissioned the University library, that building there. They have a lovely amount of lore on vampires and on venomous snakes. All false, I’m afraid,” Newt sighed, looking amused. “But I’ve an old acquaintance who quite likes to hang around with the old manuscripts during the day. They are both sensitive to sunlight, you see, and require specific upkeep. I was hoping they might help arrange an Undetectable connection to the Floo, directly to Yavorsky's little cabin fireplace which we keep unofficially connected...”

Percival did not like where this was going, and said so, but Newt had set off across the University Square toward the library. The edge of the sky was turning lighter, and the clouds on the horizon were lined with dusky grey which would soon turn to pink. Percival shot a suspicious look at the empty, early morning plaza and followed Newt, who had muttered _Alohamora_ and let them into the dim library.

The light of a stumpy candle illuminated the marble floors, rows of tables and chairs stretching out into darkness, and the bottoms of book-filled shelves. Newt took the short candle in hand, and lit the tip of his wand with a gold-tinged _Lumos,_ and Percival followed their shadows with tired eyes. Which might have been why when the attack came, he was able to react quickly despite his exhaustion. 

There was no noise of warning. A blow to the back of his head, and Percival’s elbow jutted out against something hard and cold behind him. Then preternaturally strong arms were crushing him against a bookshelf, his feet dangling off the ground, his chest constricted, his lungs empty. He reached for his wand, intent on sending his assailant flying, but there was a skeletal grip on his hand, a fiercely strong and cold grip… wandlessly, his magic lashed out, and the grip fell away. Percival slumped to the ground at the feet of an elderly man, coughing and struggling to catch his breath, his bruised hand holding a wand glowing with a Disarming Curse.

“No, _Viorel!_ What sort of hello is that!” Newt was shouting, the _Lumos_ swollen bright with his panic to illuminate his freckled face, his shining eyes, and Percival wanted to shout at him to run, the idiot, but he didn’t have enough air.

“Percival, are you well?” Newt was saying into the side of his head. “Anything broken? Do you need a mediwizard?”

“N-no, no,” Percival managed, rising to survey his attacker with bemusement.

“So sorry, I didn’t realize you were friends,” said the old man. He had to be several heads shorter than Percival, and he did not look strong enough to lift a House Elf. He looked gaunt, skinny and pale and shriveled, and he spoke quickly in a high, quiet voice. Percival frowned. “Thought you were following Mr. Scamander without his say-so. Fellow tends to be careless with his safety, as I keep telling him. Honest mistake,” he shrugged, smiling. Light glinted off of his retinas and his teeth. Newt dimmed his wandlight to a low glow.

“When did you last feed?” said Newt, eyes narrowing. “Are _you_ well?”

“Oh, well,” said the old man, “I am surviving. Did you want to look at the manuscripts again? It is not exactly a convenient hour, you know. It is getting light out. But I am happy to help _you_ , Mr. Scamander. For old time’s sake.”

“What’s been happening with the supply lines we negotiated with Minovici?” said Newt, his eyes darting to the high windows, which were still dim.

Viorel sighed and gestured them further into the library proper. They followed him and he spoke in his quiet, murmuring voice.

“Politics, Scamander. Politics is the bane of this young century. Depriving us and many others of food, blood, life… With Bratianu and Ferdinand dead just this year, you could say there has been some upheaval in our supply chain. The succession is up in the air, and the National Peasant Party has been voted in over the Liberals. Yes,” he licked his lips, his eyes straying back to Percival and then focusing on Newt. “Our liberal University does not hold the sway it once did, and supplies have been dwindling. There is also the Legionnaire movement. Do you know of them?”

“Who?” said Newt, squinting in the low light. He had extinguished his wand after relighting the candle. The old man grinned a macabre grin.

“They are not unlike your Knights of Walpurgis in Britain and France, I think,” he said, “And they have made it a radical environment. They haunt the streets, killing anyone in their way, but they hunt Jews and foreigners. It’s got so bad that Minovici no longer allows me access to his stock. I have been following medical students in the night.”

“You haven’t!” Newt began, disapproval written on his face, but the old man waved him off.

“I follow them to access the stores, but they are starting to wise up. It has been a hungry winter, Mr. Scamander.”

Newt tilted his head, his brows slanting toward his temples and creasing his forehead.

“I’m sorry. I came here hoping your clan might help us, but I see you need help yourself,” he sighed. His lips twisted downward. “Is there anything that can be done? Do you want me to put in a word somewhere?”

“I do not think you can reverse the politics brewing in the past several decades,” said the old man, giving Newt a fond if hungry look. “But thank you for asking, sweet Scamander. What help did you want? Will you step into our reading room, before the sunlight stains the night skies?”

“Thank you, Viorel,” Newt said, still frowning, still standing between his acquaintance and Percival. “This is Percival Graves, my friend. Percival, meet Atanase Viorel.”

When Viorel nodded and turned, Newt shot Percival a sharp look, and Percival redoubled his guard, his wand thrumming with contained magic in his hand. He would not be startled again.

Viorel led them through a wood-paneled hallway and into a windowless reading room. He approached an old shelf full of decrepit encyclopedias, and pressed down on one of the volumes near the top; the shelf slid back to reveal another, darker hallway. It was damp and several degrees colder, here, and Percival followed Newt with soft steps. Newt’s boots clicked lightly on the stone floor, but Viorel did not make a sound as he led them forward. Newt’s candle provided the only light. Viorel did not seem to require illumination to see—his eyes glowed like a cat’s in the dark. The shelf slid closed behind them, and Percival’s instincts trilled but he followed Newt, who was walking sideways, his case clutched behind him, the flickering candle lighting their way across the uneven stone floor.

The passage sloped downward. After a time, Percival began to notice other tunnels leading away from the main stone corridor they were traversing. There were no wall sconces, not even to hold torches, nor any windows or other sources of light. But it was the lack of sound that weighed on Percival’s nerves the most. The texture of the stone beneath their feet and along the passage suggested the excavation and building of these tunnels had been done inexpertly and slowly; the stone had been chipped away with clumsy Blasting Curses or perhaps even the nomaj way, by hand or machine. But Newt brought the candle close to the wall, and Percival saw that the crannies were precisely carved to muffle acoustics in tiny labyrinthine indentations.

Finally, they reached a set of double doors with Latin inscriptions which Percival could not make out in the dim light. Viorel pushed these open, and Newt blew out the candle. There was no longer need of it. The cavernous chamber housed an impressive collection of what looked to be very old books, manuscripts, and scrolls on glass shelves. Candles dripped a circle of wax onto the carpeted floor from a chandelier high above, and there was a draft in the room, and the sharp smell of copper.  
  
Wood doors branched off of the hidden reading room. When they walked in, Percival counted at least a dozen pairs of reflective eyes which turned to glow at them from dim corners, couches and armchairs, looking up from books and games of chess and the scrawling of goose quills.

Newt stopped dead in his tracks and swallowed audibly.

“You didn’t mention your clan had grown so much, Viorel,” he said blandly. “Where’s your mummy, then?”

Percival raised his wand and shifted his stance, but no one moved to attack them. Newt’s wand was still in his pocket. His fingernails were digging into the wax of the extinguished candle.

“I did try to explain,” Viorel said. “But you ought to consult with her, of course. This way, gentlemen,” he strode across the room and to a door on the far wall. Through another passage, and they emerged into a brightly lit bedchamber. A beautiful woman of middle age was embroidering red poppies into a handkerchief by candlelight. There were candles on the bookshelves, on the table, on the wooden headboard of the large, antique bed in the corner, and everywhere there were white trails of melted wax… The woman was as pale and gaunt as Viorel, but she was slim, long-limbed and willowy, with brittle-looking white hair in dozens of braids falling down her back and fathomless black eyes that were fixed on her embroidery. She was taller even than Newt, and as she lay reclined on a crushed velvet ottoman, her long limbs sprawled elegantly in repose, she suggested a pale, coiled snake. Viorel led Newt and Percival into the room, bowed to the lady who did not acknowledge him in any way, and left, closing the door behind him.

The woman completed several stitches more and set down the needle, thread, and handkerchief onto the silver ottoman. She glanced up at the two of them and smiled, sinuous and close-lipped.

“Hello Florin,” Newt said, bowing. His voice was unusually firm, and he kept his gaze steady despite his typical aversion to eye contact. Percival looked between the two of them. “This is Percival Graves. He is under my protection.”

“Welcome, Newt Scamander, Percival Graves,” said the woman called Florin. She barely opened her mouth when she spoke, but her deep voice carried. “Much has changed since you last graced us with your presence,” she added.

“So I gather,” said Newt, turning his back to her and alarming Percival as he sat down on the floor and set his case beside him. “Viorel said you’ve been having supply problems?”

“Hmm,” said Florin, gazing with placid interest at the back of Newt’s neck.

“Much may have changed, but that doesn’t excuse your changing so many. I thought we had agreed?”

“Hmm,” Florin said, again. “Things have changed, Newt Scamander.”

“Don’t play centaur with me,” Newt snapped, reaching an arm deep into his case. Percival saw him mouth _Accio_ and wave his wand. He wondered if Newt was acquiring garlic, or a revolver to shoot silver bullets, or a wooden stake, perhaps? And how many of those purported superstitions would actually prove effective against an entire clan?

“Is it a nest or a murder? A group of them,” Percival asked Newt, out of the side of his mouth. He had no doubt Florin could hear them perfectly well, but he did not particularly care.

“A colony or a camp, like bats,” Newt said, catching his meaning easily.

“That’s reassuring,” said Percival, dark eyes scanning the perimeter of the room again.


	26. The Truth in Three Drops

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't panic, Newt has a plan. It's not a great plan, but... ;)
> 
> Next chapter won't be up for a bit. I need to get some stuff done irl, as they say. But i'll do my best and I shall keep writing this. I leave you on a bit of a cliffhanger again, but not so much as last time. 
> 
> next chapter is called "Fido and the Flautist"
> 
> Be well! <3

**Chapter 26:** the Truth in Three Drops

 

“I do not have to explain myself to you, young magizoologist,” Florin said coolly. Her posture changed subtly, the long lines of her body tensing. Newt didn’t seem to take notice.

“Yes actually, you do,” Newt said, still arm-deep in his case, fiddling around in there. Was he opening a jar of pickles one-handed? Percival wondered. “When I negotiated the closing of the Vampire Liaison Office and the exclusion of your people from my book, you agreed to limit yourselves to established supply chains and not to congregate in large numbers, as we agreed that feeding dense populations draws undue attention. I am willing to overlook your breach of our contract in light of the political upheaval. But we need to renegotiate so that your people don’t starve or grow feral…”

Newt paused, because Florin was laughing. It was an unpleasant sound. He craned his neck, twisting his torso to survey her with curiosity. 

“Oh, you presume that you are our sole advocate in this, our only hope?” she said breathlessly, and her elongated incisors glinted when she spoke. “Viorel is a blind fool, but the Legion of the Archangel are curious, and when they come investigate, they do not leave again,” she raised dark, glittering eyes to Newt and Percival. “I have my own supply chain, Newt Scamander,” she licked her lips. “And I’ve been promised a handsome reward for your capture.”

Newt shrugged and turned back to his case. Florin seemed slightly disappointed at this lack of reaction.

“I heard you,” Newt said, before she could reiterate her treacherous intent. “But I do wonder if we might strike a more agreeable deal? Since you’re in the business of breaking contracts, as it were?”

Florin bristled. Percival was reminded of the Nundu, and stepped forward.

“Have you cut a deal with Grindelwald?” he said sharply. “Because then you’re more dimwitted than MACUSA gives you credit for. What do you think he’s going to do for you? Do you think for a moment he won’t turn on you like he turned on the werewolves he recruited? They’re being hunted down by his own Knights as we speak, working within the European and American governments.”

“I am not aware of Grindelwald’s dealings with werewolves,” said Florin, her voice low and her tone frosty on the last word in particular. “But if he’s helping hunt them, I am hardly concerned for their health.” 

Newt withdrew the golden dagger from his case, which he closed and took a seat on. He set the dagger onto the plush carpet at his feet, brought a closed fist to his mouth, swallowed and grimaced.

Seeing his accompanying magizoologist was not keen to talk sense into the clan’s Matron, Percival pressed his argument. His provocation had worked—the mention of werewolves had Florin addressing him, albeit with cold fury. But Percival had worked for Seraphina Picquery.

“As his allies, you’re next on Grindelwald's chopping block. Haven’t you noticed how he operates? As soon as you hand over Newt here, you will have outlived your usefulness and he will sic the authorities on you. And you’ll have lost your best and only advocate. For what?”

Florin looked unhappy still, but she was listening. Her sprawled position had resolved itself into a straight-backed posture, and she tilted her head at Percival, as though permitting him to continue despite her better judgment. Her chin jutted into the air and her dark eyes gleamed reflective red in the candlelight.

“You’re crazy if you think Grindelwald gives a damn about you or your kind. But Newt Scamander here, Merlin knows why, but he genuinely cares. He has been working to get legislation to protect you, to ban wizards hunting your kind, through his efforts to reclassify vampires as Non-Wizard Part-Humans. This will grant you the protections of beings, not beasts—at least in Britain. It’s in his book, though you are not—which should in itself tell you that he won’t use you for profit, and that he’s working against the perception of vampires as beasts. Now Grindelwald is a revolutionary and a criminal whose record is as treacherous as his nature. Newt Scamander, on the other hand, has growing influence in Britain’s Ministry, and he has the resources and the knowledge to help you. He’s been a reliable resource to you in the past. It’s not a difficult decision to make, Madam Florin.”

Florin’s lip curled, then, and she said, “You may have a point, Mr. Graves. It bears some discussion, I think. But what bond will you give that your word is true, that you are not plotting fresh treachery? What say you, Newt Scamander?”

Newt gave that crooked smile that usually caused something warm to flare up in Percival’s chest. But this variation was bitter, and Percival only felt alarmed.

“Let my blood be my bond,” Newt said, and he sliced his left palm with the gold dagger. Percival made an aborted motion to stop him, but Florin’s reaction was swifter. She rose, and her considerable height ensured that she was once again looking down her nose at the wizards. Then she had hauled Newt to his feet by the wrist, and her face was centimeters from his bloody palm. She brought her nose just above his hand and paused, breathing. 

“Don’t move, please, Percival,” said Newt in a tense voice. The lines about his eyes were pained; Florin’s grip on his left wrist was like a vice.

“What the _hell_ are you doing?” Percival muttered, motionless and tense. 

“You play a dangerous game, Newt Scamander,” said Florin, and then she brought Newt’s palm to her lips. “Sweet, sweet, tricky Scamander,” she said again, frowning, licking her lips. “I can taste your truth serum, but you must know it will affect you much more than it does me?”

“I have taken _Veritaserum_ ,” Newt admitted, “And I give you my word that I have and will only strive to protect you and your clan.”

Percival recognized the symptoms then—Newt’s stillness, the dilation of his pupils, the slightly dazed intonation, the starry-eyed fearlessness. Although perhaps that last one was a constant.

“I believe you,” said Florin, and huffed a smirk. “Though I did not intend to tell you so. You will wait here,” she let go of Newt’s arm, and Percival steadied Newt, who looked ready to keel over. “Whilst we convene, my clan and I, and decide upon your fate.”

She swept out dramatically, the door closing behind her, but Percival was more concerned with getting New to sit on the ottoman. He took his wrist and felt for the pulse – elevated but steady. Percival healed the cut on his palm and ran his fingers over the sensitive skin. Newt giggled.

“What, in the name of Mercy Lewis…” Percival began, but Newt interrupted him.

“Percival,” Newt said in a hushed voice, eyes dilated and slightly glazed, “That was pure dead brilliant!”

And then he leaned forward to plant a sloppy kiss on Percival’s lips, but missed, and slumped forward across Percival’s lap, and caused the Auror to shift in discomfort. Newt’s nose brushed the wool of Percival’s trousers. Percival grabbed Newt firmly by the shoulders and raised him back up. 

“Not what I was aiming for,” Newt said, and grinned, “But equally delicious, I’m sure.”

Percival took a deep, steadying breath.

“You’ve potentially overdosed on Veritaserum,” he said, when he could control his voice and his emotions. “I suggest that you keep quiet, for your own benefit. Unless you’d rather a _Silencio_? We need to neutralize the excess with an adequate countermeasure, lest there’s damage to your mind…”

“I’d rather-” Newt began, and Percival huffed an exasperated breath and silenced him with a kiss.

“You have a filthy mouth on you, Mr. Scamander,” he said huskily. Newt gazed up at him with adoration in dilated eyes. “Now keep quiet, you reckless idiot, and I’ll handle the rest. What?”

Something was knocking from within Newt’s case. Percival turned an astounded gaze but Newt murmured something like “Clever boy, Dougal,” and waved his wand to unlatch it before Percival could stop him.

A silver-haired arm reached out of the case. Percival approached it and took the offered jar, about a quarter full of a strange, blue-grey powder.

“Powdered bezoar?” Percival said, squinting at the unlabeled jar. “Thank you, Dougal. You’re much wiser than your mummy, aren’t you?”

Percival conjured a spoon and pondered spoon-feeding the recalcitrant magizoologist. Newt was sitting on his hands and swaying lightly from side-to-side in delight as he watched Percival. His wide lips closed over the spoon and Percival looked away, half-ashamed.

“I think I might love you,” Newt announced, grinning around the spoon.

“Give it a moment to take effect,” said Percival, feeling the flush rise across his cheekbones.

He might have said something else, then, too, or acted in an untoward manner, had there not been a great, thundering _Boom!_ that rocked the Matron’s bedchamber, coming from the main reading room beyond. Percival jolted up, ordered Newt to stay put, slammed and latched the case and shouldered open the door in what felt like slow motion. His ears were ringing with the pressure change of a powerful spell.

“Get in the case and stay there!” he ordered over his shoulder, although Newt looked dazed and tempting where he was reclined on the ottoman in a more candid mirror of Florin’s welcoming pose. Percival bared his teeth and swept from the room, his worry for Newt crystallizing into anger at the colony.

The clan was convening over the still body of the blonde witch who had tripped the Blasting Curse alarm. There was a slender rivulet of dark red from her nostril to her painted lips. She seemed otherwise unharmed, if unconscious. Viorel and Florin were arguing in low tones. Half a dozen other beings, just as pale, gaunt, and skeletal, stood in a semi-circle about the low couch and eyed the blonde. The looks they were casting did not bode well for Grindelwald’s spy, and Percival felt this might be a fitting end for the remarkably forgettable witch.

“Ah, you heard our defenses,” said Florin, turning casually to Percival, who had torn into the room with his wand out. “Please calm your racing heart, Percival Graves. It’s quite loud and more than tempting, and I do respect Newt Scamander’s claim on you.” 

“Newt's claim…?” said Percival, and gave his head a little shake. “Right, she triggered your defenses? Who is she?” 

“We were hoping you might tell us,” put in Viorel. “After all, she was following _you_.”


	27. Fido and the Flautist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I changed the tags up a little, but be warned that one of them comes up near the end of this chapter? Just, a general warning. This will earn its rating a little later on, too. Definitely going to be more than 33 chapters.
> 
> thank you for reading, as ever! And I'll be real happy if you comment, too
> 
> also, though my pseud is Vindsie, I want to state that I'm in no way (nor do I wish to be) affiliated with Vinda Rosier. Just, you know, putting that out there. My pseud comes from Vinders and is meant to suggest a winding digression, if you're curious <3

**Chapter 27:** Fido and the Flautist

 

“Following us?” said Percival, raising his eyebrows. “How foolish of her." 

“Indeed,” said Viorel, “We don’t take kindly to uninvited strangers. And it is after dawn already.”

“Perhaps it is breakfast that wandered in?” said one of the lesser vampires.

“How shall we divide it up, then?” said Viorel, sizing up the witch with gleaming eyes. 

“A morsel here and a morsel there,” said the other vampire.

“We might question her, and decide what to do with her accordingly,” said Florin. “Humans sometimes become more _pliable_ with a little blood loss, and the threat of more to come. Scamander certainly did, last time we spoke.”

Percival kept an impassive face thanks mainly to his extensive Auror training and his Occlumency.

“What say you, Percival Graves? Does this seem just?” said Florin, turning to the Auror.

“I would like to be present at the questioning,” Percival said. “Given that she was following us.”

“Understandable,” Florin nodded, and gestured the other clan-members to bind the witch hand and foot. “But we have been starved for fresh supplies for weeks, nay, months now, Mr. Graves. I cannot guarantee there will be much to question once we are done.”

She gave an unpleasant, close-lipped smile.

“Please return to my chamber and remain with Mr. Scamander for the day. At night-break, we will hold a feast!”

Her voice rose on the last word, and the vampires bared gleaming fangs in avid grins. Percival saw the blonde witch shift, just a bit, as though testing her bonds. He caught a sliver of blue eye. He forced himself to turn around and walk at a measured pace to Florin’s chambers and to Newt, who was sitting casually on the silver ottoman.

Percival took one look at him and brought his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

“You heard every word, didn’t you?”

“We can’t let them question her,” said Newt, his usual earnestness magnified by the receding overdose of Veritaserum. “They’ll drain her dry, you heard them. They don’t need that sort of publicity. And she doesn’t deserve to die.”

“She deserves to be in prison,” said Percival, gazing steadily at Newt from beneath furrowed brows. “She’d hand us over to Grindelwald in a second.”

“Maybe,” said Newt, “So we can leave her somewhere. In a prison, or somewhere she’ll be harmless and stranded. Not here, Percival… not to her death. Florin was telling us the truth, she couldn’t lie just now.”

Percival paced the room until he felt calm enough to give a harried sigh and acquiesce to the unreasonable magizoologist—with whom he secretly agreed. He had not sighed so much since Margot had visited him in New York and insisted he give her a personal tour of all the speakeasies.

“They’re least alert around this time in the morning, so that gives us about an hour in which to act,” said Newt, who had stuck his head down into his case and whistled. 

“They’re sensitive to light and sound. I have just the thing for light, if I can find it…”

Pickett hopped out onto Newt’s sleeve, and Newt cast an _Accio_.

“Gives light only to the holder. We’ll have to hold hands,” Newt’s mouth quirked. “But we’ll see without tipping them off. They’ve got perfect vision in the dark, of course, so it’s more about not waking them up than outmaneuvering them once they’ve woken.”

“Is that…?” said Percival, and then, “No, perhaps it’s best you don’t say.”

Newt hid his grin as he planted a burning candle into the shriveled human hand he was holding. The mummified fingers wrapped around the candle, and its light seemed to go out.

“A dark artifact? Well, yes,” Newt admitted. He shut the case and made to take Pickett to the locked door, but Percival intercepted him. “I think it’s rather how you use them that determines the darkness or light with which such objects become imbued… though I don’t envy the poor bloke who lost his hand,” Newt paused.

“Wait,” said Percival, kneeling on one knee. Newt’s eyebrows jumped up, but Percival took one of the magizoologist’s booted feet and lifted it from the ground. Newt’s arm shot to Percival’s shoulder for balance. Percival waved his wand and the sole of Newt’s boot glowed faintly. When he set it down, it was silent against the stone floor.

“Excellent!” said Newt, lifting his other foot. Percival suppressed a smile and completed the enchantment. “That’s how you’ve been moving so silently. I figured it was your inborn feline grace. Don’t they hold ballet recitals in House Wampus?”

“Certainly,” said Percival, giving Newt a small push that sent him stumbling to a seat back on the ottoman. “Wampuses eat badgers for breakfast, you know.”

“I’ll feel better about that fact once we’re out of here,” said Newt, though the predatory look in Percival’s eyes promised much more pleasurable experiences than Florin’s thirsty gaze portended.

Percival renewed the silencing enchantment on his own boots, and stepped aside to give Newt and Pickett access to the locked door. They Disillusioned each other, and when Percival took Newt’s hand, the candle in the Hand of Glory flickered to life. He exhaled and tempered his breathing. Newt had sprinkled them with some sort of colorless liquid, which he had said would throw the vampires off the scent of their blood.

“It’s a quick fix,” Newt admitted, “But it’ll do exactly what we need. Erumpet musk masks the scent of human blood. Attracts Erumpets in heat, too, but she’s not in heat at present. Had an incident in Central Park with Jacob…”

The blonde witch was clever enough to fake unconsciousness when levitated, Disillusioned, and set floating behind them, over abandoned books and Turkish carpets and stumps of burnt out candles. Newt and Percival crept slowly across the floor. Soon the witch didn’t need to fake unconsciousness, because Percival’s levitation banged her head against the rock ceiling of the tunnel. The muffling texture of the stone seemed to absorb the sound of impact. Percival shrugged when Newt glanced sharply at him.

The magizoologist seemed sure of the path he was choosing, his right hand holding the Hand of Glory and his case, and his left hand in Percival’s left. They had inched sidewise out of a door at the back of the reading room, a different way than they had come in, back-to-back and vigilant to threats from all directions.

The tunnel was dark and quiet, and so Percival didn’t realize how vast it was until they had walked, swift and silent, for what felt like at least a kilometer, and Newt had deemed it safe to put away the dark artifact and light the tip of his wand with a soft “ _Lumos!_ ”

Percival stood hand-in-hand with Newt and gazed up at the intricately carved ceiling of a cavernous tunnel. Though the grand architecture rendered it less of a tunnel and more of an enormous hall, a vast parade entrance to the reading rooms below the library. There were no tunnels or doors branching off from the main way, which seemed to stretch to a dark infinity. Percival squinted and the illusion faded: he could faintly make out a pair of dark metal doors another several hundred meters ahead.

“Have you been here before?” said Percival, very quietly into Newt’s ear. The chamber was not made for hushing noise but for the magnification and echo of the slightest sound. The colony’s proverbial front door had its bell built-in.  
  
“Very briefly,” said Newt, equally quiet. “But I wasn’t in full possession of all my faculties, precisely.”

“Nor of several pints of blood, I imagine?” said Percival, frowning at Newt, who looked away.  
  
“It’s not much further,” he said. “I just wonder what they’re doing for security at the other end…”

He stopped short, because there was a low, feral growl and a flash of eyes. Three pairs of green, glinting eyes.

“ _Oh_ ,” said Newt, his voice quite high-pitched and echoing. “Oh! I have never met one of _you_ before…”

The trill in his voice was not fear but excitement, Percival realized with some exasperation. The growling continued.

“Hullo there, floofer. Yes, who’s a good floofer? Oh dear,” Newt said into the silence, squinting into the dark. “He’s on a long chain, must be, since he’s not pouncing. Poor thing must be starved! This is criminal of them! I should turn around and have a word with Florin,” he looked ready to do just that.

Percival brought a hand up to massage the bridge of his nose.

“What if we let it chase our tail?” said Percival, inclining his head towards where he had set down the blonde witch. “While we escape?”

“Oh no, we couldn’t leave it here, could we?” said Newt. He was whispering, almost crooning, and Percival was tempted to growl himself. “Let’s have a look at you, lovely,” Newt muttered, and the light from his wand grew brighter, fell across the stony floor and the intricately carved columns and the ceiling, the great yellow teeth and slobbering drool and sharp claws of the giant, three-headed dog that was chained to the far column. 

“A Cerberus,” said Percival, surprised. “They’re loyal, though, aren’t they? How will you tame it then?”

“I don’t tame beasts,” muttered Newt, setting his wand down to reach into his case. “You know that, Percival. I just…try to help for a little while. That’s all. Taming them would be detrimental to their happiness and their continued survival in the wild.”

And then the blonde witch, who had looked to be unconscious, dove at Newt’s wand, extinguishing the light at its end to plunge them into sudden darkness. She fired off two consecutive Disarming curses, rolling to shelter behind a column. Percival’s wand arm instinctively rose to block one of the curses, but the other struck Newt across the front, sending him flying into a column with an unpleasant _thwack_ of bone on rock. Newt slumped to the ground, hugging his suitcase loosely to his body with his left arm, his teeth grit in pain.

“He saved you, you ungrateful wretch!” Percival bit out, whipping spells to send portions of the column crumbling into dust. “I would’ve left you for vampire feed!”

His voice echoed across the hall, making it impossible to locate him by sound. It occurred to Percival that he needed to dispatch of the witch quickly if he wanted to avoid pursuit by Florin’s clan.

“You would have been smart, then,” hissed the blonde witch, springing out only to hide behind another column. Percival lit to tip of his wand to shoot a darting look at Newt, but the magizoologist gave a small shake of his head. His arm looked to be twisted at an unnatural angle, his face pained. Percival flicked out the light, sidestepping another curse, mouth set into a grim line.

“Who are you?” said Percival, projecting his low voice.

“Vinda Rosier, at your service,” said the blonde witch. “I know who you are, Mr. Graves and Mr. Scamander.”  
  
“At Grindelwald’s service, more like,” snapped Percival, sending another vicious hex at Vinda. He was herding her toward the end of the hall, away from Newt.

Vinda laughed, a high, tinkling sound. Then she hit Percival with a Tickling Charm, which he quickly reversed, feeling baffled. His laughter echoed in the hall long after he had stopped laughing. The Cerberus was strangely quiet.

“How do you cast with this ridiculous thing?” came Vinda’s drawl. “It’s got to be the weakest instrument I’ve ever wielded. Finicky and obtuse, just like its useless master-”

Her voice cut off, and there was a growl, a scream, and Newt’s wand went clattering across the floor. Percival summoned it, and it flew into his left hand, warm with magic. He ran to where he had seen Newt, lighting his wand. But Newt wasn’t there.

And then Percival heard the most unusual, enchanting sound. It started as a low note that rose, echoing in the vast hall, to a hypnotic and reedy high, spiraling back down and up again, looping on itself in a sweet melody. An old Celtic lullaby, perhaps—Percival had not heard anything like it before. Newt was producing the strangely soothing music, his right arm held awkwardly, an expression of intense concentration on his face as he pursed his lips to blow across the embouchure hole of a tarnished silver flute.

The Cerberus lowered the paw it had raised over the blonde witch, who scuttled back and rammed herself through the metal doors beyond the beast. She limped away without looking back.

Newt closed his eyes and the tune grew mournful, and sweet again. The Cerberus yawned—first one head, then a second.

* * *

“Fido is fine,” Percival was shaking his head, “if you’ve got a Scottish terrier. But a Cerberus? A female Cerberus?”

“She’s a Fido, I can just tell,” Newt sniffed. He had allowed Percival to set his arm only after the Cerberus was asleep in an unused habitat of his case. While Newt cared for the sleeping Fido, Percival had carried the case into the daylight, into the first place he could find – a hostel. And then out of it, and into a fine hotel that boasted art deco architecture and a balcony over the frozen Dâmbovița River. He thought it might be a pleasant surprise for Newt, to emerge into an environment devoid of creatures and wizards intent on killing them.

Newt moved to climb the ladder in the shed.

“We need to get moving. The vampires are bound to give chase after that racket,” he said, laying his right hand on the ladder and letting out a surprised and heartfelt, “ _Ow!_ Crumbs!”

“Forgot, did you?” said Percival, looking downright frightening with an arched brow. Newt turned a sheepish gaze toward his companion. “Come. Here.”

Newt swallowed and did as bidden, his eyes on Percival’s boots. Percival heaved a stack of parchment from a wooden bench in Newt’s shed, and gestured Newt to sit.

“Over here. Arm?” Percival’s tone was brusque, but his touch was gentle. He slid his wand just above Newt’s coat sleeve, down the length of his forearm. Newt sighed at the cooling numbness. “ _Brackium Emendo_ ,” Graves muttered, and Newt hunched in on himself, tense in expectation of pain. He would usually set broken bones with magic and speed up his recovery with potions. Newt excelled at helping Beasts start the process along, as their own magic would take over from there--humans were rather trickier, however. But there was only a dull ache at Percival’s spell.

Percival took his arm through a range of motions, carefully lifting and rotating his elbow and wrist. Newt sat gaping as Percival’s hands ran under his sleeve, a thumb lingering over the jutting wrist bone, other hand rotating his elbow and resting just above it. Even Percival’s blunt nails were warm against Newt’s skin, the Auror’s fingertips pausing on Newt’s inner wrist, along the base of his hand, across his palm, brushing along the veins and knuckles to encircle his wrist. Newt felt a jolt and found that he had closed his eyes, that he was quite warm.

Percival was sitting before him, their faces quite close. He seemed to be drinking in the expressions flitting across the magizoologist’s face. When Newt’s eyes flew open, Percival paused and let his hands fall away. He tilted his head and said, “Well?”

“Thanks,” said Newt, clearing his throat. “That was... we should go.”

He marveled that he could climb the ladder from his case, his weight falling on his newly healed right arm which only registered that same dull ache that would fade within days. When he emerged from the suitcase, he felt the momentary light-headedness of disorientation. He had expected the darkness of the subterranean passageway, but he stood now in the middle of a lavish suite of hotel rooms. It felt rather like the honeymoon suite he had once followed Horace into, when the Niffler had glimpsed the sparkle of gold wedding rings and given chase. There was a door leading to a room with a large, quilted bed. The wide windows were mostly obscured by heavy brocade curtains, though the grayish light of a cloudy day spilled into the room from clear glass doors to a balcony overlooking a frozen river. Side tables groaned beneath the weight of expensive winter flower arrangements and silver trays covered in polished-silver domes. The aroma of gardenias and roasted vegetables intermixed and made Newt’s mouth water. They had skipped breakfast.

Percival, who had emerged from the case, found Newt blinking and gazing curiously about.

“What?” Newt began, but paused. “When?” he started again, but bit his lip, and then beamed at Percival.

“You don’t expect much of your travel companions, do you?” said Percival, brushing past Newt to remove the silver dome from a plate of potatoes fried with mushrooms, another to uncover rice-stuffed peppers, a third revealing a stew of mashed kidney beans and onions. “How do you Brits put it? Tuck in?” Percival’s inviting eyes belied the sardonic tone. Newt’s face split into another grin, and he shrugged off his blue coat, tossed it across a wingback armchair, and sat down on the couch, patting a spot next to him.

They ate in companionable, exhausted silence. Newt tore pieces of bread to soak up the last of his soup. Percival poured them both a measure of the local plum brandy, and they toasted their narrow escape.

“Vampires can be very civilized, when they’re not starved,” Newt began, but he abandoned this topic quickly at Percival’s expression.

“I don’t want you going near those vampires again,” Percival said, his voice low.

“Probably a wise move. We’ve got dragons to worry about anyway,” Newt allowed. “I was thinking the Muggle way. We’ll fly.”

“The nomajes don’t have broomsticks,” Percival returned, narrowing his eyes. “Unless you’re thinking of those deathtrap contraptions, aeroplanes. Newt! Newt?”

“Have you never wanted to fly the Muggle way?” Newt said innocently, eyes wide.

“Don’t flutter those lashes at me, sir,” growled Percival, looking amused.

“We should leave now,” said Newt, stretching. The couch was very comfortable. “While our stalker has been incapacitated. Before we’re, uh,” his words were swallowed by a yawn, “before we acquire any other tails.”

“Besides Fido’s, you mean?” said Percival. “I think it wiser to stay put and rest. You’ve been injured, and running off and expending magic now would be tantamount to breaking your arm a second time.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Newt, but he was suppressing another wide yawn. “Neither of us has slept in a fair bit, but we’re hardly schoolchildren…”

He paused at the look Percival was shooting him.

“That was not a dig at your distinguished age!” Newt exclaimed, mischief tugging at the edge of his mouth. Percival’s expression grew irate, and then he was pulling the magizoologist up by the lapels of his wool blazer. Newt let out an undignified squeak and allowed Percival to manhandle him across the room. He wasn’t expecting the pressure at the back of his knees, or Percival’s sweeping his weight with a well-placed shin. Newt went stumbling back onto the bed, the wind knocked out of him. He laughed, breathless, expectant, but Percival simply stood and stared.

“Well come on,” Newt said quietly, “do you require a written invitation? Is there a form the Ministry needs? Apologies, the Magical Congress. Twelve signatures in red ink?”

Percival rolled his eyes and began to tug off Newt’s shoes, then his own. Newt’s hands had stripped off his jacket and vest, and were on the buttons of his shirt when he felt suddenly unwell. It was as though the room’s temperature had dropped, the air grown thin. He remembered his hands feeling like they were not his hands. He remembered the humiliation and the anger, and the effort to hold onto his own willpower. A button jumped from where he had pulled too hard. It rolled across the bedspread and to the floor. Newt’s eyes followed it vacantly. His heart was beating very fast, and his mouth was dry. His hands were unsteady. The scar on his back seemed to ache, echoing the ache of his recently healed right forearm.

Newt swallowed with some difficulty. His skin prickled with gooseflesh and sweat. His magic was roiling, too, as though it were someone else’s magic below his skin, foreign and wild and _something was not right_. 

“Breathe,” said Percival. His voice was different. Calm and professional, Percival had become Director Graves. Newt’s racing thoughts latched onto the command and the soothing tone. “Slow, deep breaths. That’s it, keep breathing. Nothing is going to happen.”

He did not say much more, nor did he repeat it many times. The tone was enough—compelling not for any insidiously sweet cadence or logic but for the direct simplicity of the low tones.

His breathing evened out, and he suppressed the urge to apologize. Percival lay next to him, and Newt settled back on the bed awkwardly. He felt clammy, shivery and ill, but no longer at risk of losing his lunch. He sighed and thought of their Occlumency lessons, and imagined a craggy cliff-side path, a distant view of steppes stretching out to the horizon below, the sky above lit by the dusty pink glow of dawn. The last stars were fading from the sky, though the moon was bright, and the wind smelled of juniper and bitterly of wormwood. It took time and concentration to drift away from his sore body and toward this imagined sanctuary. It felt like hours until his breathing calmed, until the scene in his mind exerted serenity on his emotions.

He was drifting to sleep. Percival’s presence remained at the periphery of consciousness. The Auror lay nearby while affording Newt space, their bodies not quite touching, their magic brushing on the edge of awareness. Newt nuzzled drowsily into Percival’s side, tilting his head into a shoulder, pressing his knees to Percival’s legs. He felt Percival turn his head by the warm breath along his cheek, but Newt was busy scouting out the strange pink variety of Clabberts that inhabited this part of his mind. By the time Percival’s hand was carding through his hair, Newt was breathing steadily and drooling slightly onto the pillow. Percival gave a thin smile and closed his eyes. His fingertips rested in that overgrown fringe. His other hand was wrapped around his wand, keyed to the wards he had set up on the suite of rooms.


	28. Mimicry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> think of this chapter as a snack to tide you over, to whet your appetite. A costume change, is all. I regret the loss of the blue coat but I mirror canon where possible, and those trousers. yum.
> 
> also, thank you for commenting & leaving kudos! I'm always really happy to chat and I love to hear from you all. <3
> 
> be well! (and the final chapter count is steadily climbing. another in-transit chapter and we'll finally arrive ... somewhere)

**Chapter 28:** Mimicry

 

Soggy moss covered the square foundation, the long-crumbled stone walls of what used to be a cabin. The canopy cast swaying shadows and dappled sunlight to swim along the low mounds of earth and sand where sturdy rock had slowly, slowly given in to time.

“Centuries,” came the soft tenor. “Centuries and centuries. Time is a curious thing. You have all of it, and then none. Too much and simultaneously never enough, while you live. Ghosts and imprints are stuck in it, even as it moves past them, like a Flitterby in amber.”

Ignotus was perched on the same half-rotted log as before, his silvery cloak falling across one shoulder, blending green-brown into the forest and the ferns at his feet.

“Ignotus didn’t become a ghost, though?” said Newt, “I mean, you aren’t…”

“Not a ghost,” said Ignotus, “not substantial enough for semi-corporeal materialization outside very specific conduits, no…”

He seemed distracted.

“I thought I had stumbled across another Hallow,” said Newt, joining Ignotus on the log. “But it didn’t work.”

“You have and you haven’t,” said Ignotus, casting a mysterious look at the magizoologist. “Dragon-fire tells all. Basilisk venom might, too.”

“Don’t currently have one of those,” said Newt absently. “Had to nurse one blindfolded. Would have been wiser to blindfold the Basilisk and not myself, in retrospect…”

Newt trailed off.

“You tried to reach her?” said Ignotus.

“I failed,” said Newt, miserably. He swallowed and broke off.

“Keeping her memory alive honors her, but do not nurse your guilt,” said Ignotus, toying with the fronds of the fern beside him. “It serves neither you nor her to be bitter. To err is human. To learn from our wandering mistakes, to do better, to help another—Credence, was it? That is the path of wisdom, and it is a winding and difficult path.”

Newt gazed intently at the canopy until the stinging in his nose abated, and his eyes were no longer threatening to overflow.

“You’ve done well to mask your mind,” said Ignotus, after a long silence. “Something has been seeking your magic inexorably. You have staved off the Dark Eye, and that is no small achievement.”

“Gellert?” said Newt, trying not to shiver. “Was that nightmare, before, was that _him_? It wasn’t just in my head?”

“Does one preclude the other?” said Ignotus, and Newt was reminded suddenly of Dumbledore. “At any rate, you are safer now than you were. But you must beware your greatest strength, for it is also your greatest weakness.”

“Is there any chance you could put that more plainly?” said Newt, with a dubious frown.

Ignotus smiled a small, enigmatic smile.

“We learn and we grow through our own realizations, Newt. I cannot give you everything, though I would like to give you more. It has been a pleasure to meet with you, now and again,” Ignotus sounded tenuous, like he was fading into a more distant dream, like he was submerged under water. The forest grew dim, the beams of faint light blurring.

“Wait,” said Newt urgently, “What’s my greatest strength? How can it be strength and weakness? Do you mean my beasts? Ignotus!”

But there was only silence, and then a faint _tap tap tap_ … 

 

Newt awoke feeling groggy to the tapping of rocks on glass. Theseus was throwing pebbles against his window. No, he was in Bucharest, and Percival’s face was smushed into the pillows next to him, hair rumpled in sleep, eyelashes dark and lips parted. Newt traced the side of his face gently with two fingers, and a pair of dark eyes was watching him.

“How are you feeling?” said Percival hoarsely. The corners of his eyes crinkled in response to the smile Newt realized he was giving Percival.

“Better, thanks,” Newt said. The tapping grew more persistent, and Newt leaned up to see a shadow against the window. “Let me just,” he said, rolling over and out of bed, and pushed the heavy brocade of the curtain aside. A cold winter sunset painted the clouds orange and pained his eyes. The ribbon of the frozen river reflected light with an opaque, frosty yellow gleam. The orange roofs of houses looked red, and smoke rose in puffs from chimneys to join the orange clouds. Squinting, Newt unlatched the window and let in the owl tapping its beak against the glass.

The owl ruffled its feathers, sending droplets of ice flying. Newt cast about for his wand – it was on the bedside table – and cast a Warming Charm. The owl cooed and hopped onto his forearm, which was not painful at all until its weight and claws settled on the recently healed fracture. Newt took the letter and walked to where the leftover food had been. It was gone; evidently Percival had vanished the leftovers. Newt poked his head and arm into his case and Summoned a handful of owl treats to feed the bird. It was an anonymous-looking one, like the Hogwarts Owlery provided its students. In the other room, he could hear Percival shuffling about.

The writing on the envelope with his name was familiar. Newt was about to open the letter when he paused, and waved his wand over it in the manner Percival had done to check for deception or curses. All seemed clear.

He tore it open, then, and scanned its contents, which were signed with the letters _APWBD_.

Though Kit had tried to warn Newt about Dumbledore’s intentions toward the magizoologist, Newt did not think Dumbledore would manipulate him into anything truly dangerous. But Credence was still a child, and a vulnerable one at that. Dumbledore’s interest in the Obscurial and in Newt’s abilities to extract or to diminish it had made Newt cagey. Dumbledore had said Newt had found a “cure.” Newt did not like to think of it quite this way… perhaps a regimen of therapy, of mitigating treatment. Maybe it had been the false Graves’s interest in the Obscurial which had alerted Newt to the impersonation, and now Newt was paranoid when _anyone_ asked after Credence. Grindelwald’s interest certainly did not help matters.

Newt was not sure if he could trust his misfiring instincts. He could not seem to stop himself worrying.

“You’re thinking much too loudly,” said Percival, running a hand over his jaw. Neither of them had shaved since the Orient Express. He was standing in the doorway, dark eyes flicking between Newt’s face and the letter in his hand. Newt stopped thinking entirely when he caught sight of Percival’s unbuttoned shirt and mussed hair. The imprint from the pillow ran a crease across his cheek. Newt tried not to make a face, but his amusement must have registered in his expression because Percival gave one of those thin, self-conscious smiles that softened his sharp features and warmed his brown eyes.

“It’s from Dumbledore,” Newt said, waving the letter. “He says Credence is well. Though he doesn’t call him by that name. And he’s asking after our progress. Should I mention our meeting with Vinda Rosier, do you think? I don’t think I should mention the ring…”

“Tell him we were tailed, certainly,” Percival nodded, advancing to sprawl on the couch and survey their discarded clothes. “But not where we are. I wouldn’t trust sensitive information to owls at the best of times.”

“Hmm,” said Newt, feeling for his fancy Voges quill in his pocket.

Newt penned a cautious reply. He was pleased to hear Christopher Briebread and the rest of the group were doing well. He hoped to join them, perhaps once he had found the dragonflies to complete his illustrations. Perseus was doing well and indulged Newt’s capricious flights after moths and such. How was Aegeuson, then? He hoped the weather there was mild. A cold front seemed to be imminent. They had been followed by flurries all through their journey, and he wondered if a blizzard might not cause them considerable delay if they didn’t keep moving. Luckily, they were dressed for the weather.

He signed his initials and offered the owl a final treat before letting it out again, fed and warmed, to deliver the reply. Percival was still contemplating their coats, his gaze somewhat absent. 

“What is it?” said Newt, because Percival was twirling his wand as he sometimes did when deep in thought.

“Hm? Oh, I noticed on my way through the city that my clothes were of significantly better quality than anyone I encountered on the busy streets, even guests of this somewhat reputable establishment,” Percival said, glancing down at his rumpled black trousers. The fabric was indeed fine, thought Newt, though the lines of the tailoring and of long legs did not hurt, either. He looked away. 

“You’re saying you want to go shopping?” said Newt, lips quirking.  
  
Percival shot him a half-hearted glare that turned into a smirk.

“Not shopping, I think. Would you be so kind as to put your clothes on for me, Mr. Scamander?”

Newt’s eyebrows jumped up, but he went about the request. His wrinkled shirtsleeves and trousers were joined by his vest and jacket, and then his blue coat. Percival stood and made a lazy circle about Newt, examining the cut and the cloth.

“I’m no tailor,” Percival warned, “But we need to blend in.”

“Alter away,” said Newt, swallowing. He could not help but follow Percival’s pacing with his eyes and tilted head. It was not meant as such perhaps, but circling was a predatory behavior. 

“You will have to lose color,” Percival warned. Newt nodded. And then he felt the sort of Transfiguration he would not normally do so close to his person. The fabric of his trousers changed texture and shifted against his skin, as did his jacket. His coat’s collar and lapels widened, and color leached out to leave it a nondescript grey, a shade darker than his new grey suit. His waistcoat remained the only spot of color. Percival considered him and flicked his wand to transform his bow tie to fit the grey-scheme. The coat was longer, the fit of his trousers tighter, and the fabric—though it felt soft and warm—appeared to be worn and of a lower quality.

“There,” said Percival, nodding toward the mirror on the far wall.

“Bit form-fitting, isn’t it?” Newt said, looking down at his ankles. The fit of the trousers emphasized the leanness of his long legs rather more than he was used to.

“Just so,” said Percival, looking satisfied as he Transfigured his own suit to a darker grey with a faint check pattern, adding scuff marks to his pristine shoes with evident reluctance. He changed the brushed cotton to wool and shortened his coat to fall just below his knees, the color and fit altered so the elegant garment looked rather more ordinary. Yet even in proletarian-wear, Percival’s authoritative air lingered. Newt told him as much, and Percival narrowed his eyes.

“If I want the opinion of the bourgeoisie, I will ask for it,” he said, stepping over to adjust Newt’s bow tie. “How is it?”

Newt stepped out onto the balcony. Pedestrians trekked the slushy streets below, and occasional automobiles clattered by over the cobblestones with a great clunking and not a little smoke. Newt’s eyes ran over the dress of the passersby.

“An excellent mimicry,” he said, stepping back inside. “And a fine idea. The economic and political oppression will only increase as we travel east. The Soviets are less likely to single us out this way. Also, blending with Muggles is our best bet to avoid Wizarding customs.”

“You would know, I suppose,” Percival muttered. “You truly believe the Floo Network is under surveillance?” he added, frowning and summoning his toiletries and books, which he tucked into a Featherlight, Expanded satchel, and this into the pocket of his coat.

“I have proof it is,” said Newt, “And it’s a flagged Red Zone for Apparition. Our most secure bet truly is Muggle transport, I’m afraid.”

Percival’s shoulders slumped.

“Ah, there it is,” said Newt, “the look of exasperated despair that will help us blend in.” 

 


	29. Mount Hoverla

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's one, the last of the travels! bit of a cliffhanger but you'll manage! strands of plot are coming together at last. I'm midway through 32 now and it's insisting on becoming longer, this story. But oh, there will be an illustration I commissioned around 32/33 (!) which I'm very excited about 
> 
> be well!

 

 **Chapter 29:** Mount Hoverla

 

Their flight from Bucharest to Iaşi was operated by a joint French-Rumanian company that catered to adventurous Muggles with the money for risky luxury. It was not a crowd that Newt, with his eccentric and absent air, blended into. Percival’s dignified, authoritative manner emanated old wealth, but his sharp detective’s gaze did not endear him to the Muggle passengers, who sat smoking and drinking and eyeing the two fellows in the rear with suspicion.

Newt spent his time gazing out the porthole window, searching out birds and admiring the closeness of clouds and marveling at Muggle technology. Percival grit his teeth and tried to sit very still. As the small aeroplane rocked and groaned amid air currents, Percival resisted the urge to Disapparate. Newt’s callused fingers came to rest on his fisted hand, and Percival glanced up, startled. The sun limned Newt’s features, brought out the copper in his hair and the warmth of his fading tan. Newt gave him a quick grin and wrapped his fingers about Percival’s paler, broader hand.  
  
“You look like you could use some Gigglewater,” Newt said surreptitiously, “Or some of that Muggle stuff—perhaps a gin and tonic?” He tilted his head toward where the Muggles were sitting and sipping liquor, smoking cigarettes in holders and shooting Newt and Percival suspicious glances.

“Better not arrive to face fire-breathing creatures pre-soaked in flammable liquid,” Percival retorted, unclenching his fist and catching Newt’s wrist deftly with a flick of his hand. Newt exhaled and looked out the window again, tensing and forcibly relaxing his shoulders. Percival ran his thumb along the protruding veins of Newt’s inner wrist, feeling for the pulse toward the inside, gliding his fingers along the palm. Perhaps he could calm his own heartbeat to match Newt’s seemingly steady one. Or perhaps he might elevate Newt’s pulse to match his own.

“Something tried to rid you of several fingers, just there,” he observed softly, turning his head to speak discretely into the magizoologist’s ear as he traced scarred flesh with the tips of his fingers.

Newt nodded jerkily, looking straight ahead. He cleared his throat.

“My first Occamy. They can be a bit snippy. Remarkably sharp and agile beaks, all down to the muscles in their necks, which develop very early…” Newt paused, because the aeroplane was rocking up and down in the air currents and Percival’s hand had tightened on his wrist. “They’re trafficked for the eggshells, which are made of the purest silver. I incubated a particularly reluctant hatchling in my coat-pocket once, and they are quite heavy! It hatched and took Jacob for its mummy. It was how we met.”

“Because it was Disillusioned and not taken into areas frequented by nomajes…” said Percival faintly, loosening his grasp on Newt’s wrist incrementally.

“Of course,” said Newt quickly, “All very, very legal.”

 

Percival made it through the Muggle flight alive, and without the aid of alcohol or Calming Draughts. His Occlumency and emotional discipline had helped, but it was Newt’s stream of soothing speech that had defused several instances of near Disapparition.

Now Percival knew that Newt had been a Chaser for the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, and that his favorite color was a warm, deep, woody brown, though the green of Pickett’s leaves was a close contender, leafy and verdant colors being soothing and evolutionarily easy on the eyes. When asked about colors, Newt would begin to describe them in terms of his creatures, the pearlescent blue-violet of an Occamy’s scales, the silvery-grey of Dougal’s magnificent fur—it had been closely sheared when Newt had rescued him, but with proper nutrition… And Percival discovered that Newt had a special fondness for nonmagical animals including stray dogs, which he would always stop to feed when traveling through cities. When Percival asked after Hogwarts, Newt obliged him, though he answered questions selectively. The Sorting Hat had considered putting Newt in Gryffindor, but he did not want to be in the same house as Theseus.

“Ravenclaws are known for accepting eccentric students. Uric the Oddball was a Ravenclaw,” Newt said.

“You’re hardly walking around with a jellyfish for a hat,” Percival retorted.

“No,” said Newt, “But you know, Uric had a bizarre fascination with birds. Fwoopers, Augureys… he had at least fifty of them. And they drone when they sense rain, but in the Middle Ages, their call was said to portend death. Everything portended death in the Middle Ages, really.”

“Why did you refuse to become a Gryffindor?” said Percival suddenly. Newt paused and the lines around his eyes tightened.

“I… it’s not precisely that I don't value courage,” Newt paused. “It’s rather that I value freedom? A different House afforded me some distance.”

“I’ve worked with Theseus,” said Percival mildly. “He is sometimes a touch secretive, and he can be dramatic, but he has been reliable.”

“Theseus makes friends easily,” Newt nodded, still reluctant to speak on the topic. “He can charm people, and he’s a natural leader, in many respects. He’s pragmatic, perceptive, and he commits to his plans with bravery and stubbornness. He’s been very successful.”

“But?” Percival arched a brow.

“Hm?” said Newt, looking back from the window. “Oh. Well, I don't mean to say that I don’t appreciate him... but growing up together, we did not see eye-to-eye on certain matters. He often went after things I wanted. It doesn’t matter now. 

Percival dropped the subject. He felt his stomach was dropping, too, because the aeroplane was coming in for a landing in a dive that was far too steep for his taste. The nomajes were laughing, shouting, and Newt was gazing out the window and Percival braced himself and shut his eyes.

 

All was silent save for the howling of the wind. They had disembarked from the aeroplane and their next train, and stood on a nondescript platform in the midst of a hilly country. Blowing snow obscured the landscape, and the wind cut razor chill through their coats and their warming charms.

Percival shook his head, dislodging clumps of snow that had aggregated in his hair.

Newt brought a hand to the healing wound on his back. They were two nondescript grey figures on a grey-white platform. The sign with the name of the station was illegible beneath a crust of windblown snow. “I find it’s easier to remain unnoticed amid the working class. One might buy privacy, but then one generally also acquires hangers-on who know you’ve got something valuable. And people find me suspicious.”

“You mean your posture disqualifies you from first class?” said Percival, giving Newt a sidelong glance. Newt shrugged but didn’t argue. “Where to, now?”

“We’re in the foothills of the Eastern Beskids. We could meet Yavorsky at the Reservation, but I’d like to take a detour to higher ground. More often than not, poachers will be brazen enough to keep a fire going. Mount Hoverla is our best bet. The Muggles have a lovely trail.”

“You’ve searched out missing dragons before?” said Percival.

“Magizoologist,” Newt shrugged, “I actually helped set up this Reservation, and the spell that makes it Unplottable is altitude-bound.”

“You’re saying we can climb the mountain and consult a map,” said Percival, “That’s quite a security breach.”

“Useful to have loopholes, though,” said Newt, shrugging again. “Especially when you need to find your charges.”

The Muggle path was a foot trail, snow stamped down over winding roots and icy rocks. Pines and juniper trees, green against the snowy mountain, covered the slowly sloping ground with shadows. Newt and Percival trekked on, Newt’s case ever in hand, Percival’s wand just inside his sleeve. The air grew misty, the trees rarer, the low juniper closer to the ground as they approached the top of Mount Hoverla. The trail narrowed, leading across a natural rocky stair that grew steeper as the wind rose. The view opened up upon snowy evergreen hills and mountains. At last they emerged on a plateau, windswept and empty save for two monuments: an Obelisk memorial and an Orthodox cross.

Newt muttered an incantation and closed his eyes, allowing his wand to spin between his palms. The wand paused pointing in a direction, and then another. Newt opened his eyes, then, and straightened. He waved his wand, casting a powerful ward in a dome of blue-white light that faded around him and Percival. The ward isolated them from the cold, the sound and chill of the wind. It grew warm and quiet within, and Percival felt Newt’s magic settling around them. It was light and for some reason, Percival suddenly remembered the Delphinium flowers, their vivid blue in the hospital room in Paris.

“Wind was interfering with my tracking,” said Newt. “Sorry, just another minute, Percival.”

“You’re quite practiced with those environmental wards,” Percival noted, watching Newt allow his wand to spin on his palm, unhindered by the wind. “Are you tracking Yavorsky or the dragons?”

“His magical signature, yes,” Newt said, “But there seems to be a group of wizards in the area, somewhere in the vicinity. They’ve set up wards. I can’t get a read on their numbers, exactly, but there could be up to a dozen? Oh no…”

Percival did not need to ask. He felt the shift in the air, the _pops_ of wizards or witches Apparating onto the plateau. The red Stunner flew wide of Newt, and the next second Percival had tugged the magizoologist into the snow behind the Obelisk, which shuddered under the force of a barrage of spells.

“Apparate us to Yavorsky!” Percival barked. He lay on the snow, his hand on Newt’s shoulder, his wand and concentration holding steady against a volley of Stunners and Stinging Hexes, against spells meant to bind and incapacitate and disarm, to sever and to set aflame, to blow up and to confound. There were at least a dozen wizards in the ambush and they were not holding back.

Newt tried to sit up and look around, but Percival tugged him back down, and Newt got a faceful of snow and sand.

“Apparate! Now!” Percival shouted. His shield would not hold under such onslaught, and they were severely outnumbered. Newt’s hand found Percival’s, and Percival was grateful for Newt’s absurdly fast Disapparition as he felt the air squeeze in on them, and they were gone.

The wizards on the plateau closed in on the spot where Newt and Percival had just been—an imprint of two figures, a faint indentation circling where Newt’s ward had settled against the snow.

“By Gormlaith!” snapped a croaky voice. The wizard who had spoken was short of height, his brown eyes bright despite his old age. He wore a golden locket inlaid with shards of emerald around his neck. “Well, what are you standing about for? Track those filthy blood traitors! They’re thieves and no mistake. Next they’ll be coming after our livelihood.” 

“But the boss said,” began another wizard.

“Blast and damnation!” cried the first wizard. “Are you going to listen to some jumped-up goblin or to a pure-blooded wizard? I tell you, Burke, it’s them or us. We hunt them down now, or they’ll jump us when we’re least prepared. You want to lose everything now to a pair of…of… Mudblood-loving interlopers? Did you see the way they ran? They’re practically Squibs! We won’t have any trouble getting rid of them, and _then_ we can renegotiate our contract with Gnarlak.”

 


	30. Follies and Friends, pt 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wanted to give you a double update, dammit. upcoming chapters are going be longer but farther between. I also have an illustration ready in 33-ish perhaps?
> 
> much love to you all <3
> 
> 30 chaps in and just in time for Valentine's day. I don't feel comfortable or experienced writing the sort of stuff that I did there, at the end. so please let me know what works and what could be better, if you'd like? I'm happy to edit and improve, always

 

 **Chapter 30:** Follies and Friends, pt 3

 

“ _Oi!_ Scamander! What the hell!”

They landed in a pile of snow and limbs and suitcase on Yavorsky’s living room carpet. Newt had aimed, successfully, for the center of the room, which was fortunate as the place was small and crowded full of furniture, books, and dragon fangs.

Yavorsky’s wand was centimeters from Newt’s neck, his eyes wide, wandtip glowing. He extinguished the spell before it formed, lowering his wand and glaring at the newcomers even as he helped them stand.

“What in Hades happen to you?” he said, squinting and stepping away, looking between the wind-rumpled and snowy Newt and Percival as they found their feet. Percival felt slightly ill from the combination of holding back the barrage of curses and Newt’s abrupt side-along.

They were in a traditional cottage, windows boarded up against the winter, flames crackling in the overlarge fireplace. The snow on their clothes had already begun to melt, droplets of it gleaming on wool and auburn hair, dripping into the carpet. Yavorsky had bookshelves stacked haphazardly with books in a variety of Slavic and Romance and Germanic languages. Loose pages and manuscripts bound in twine outnumbered the published books. An archive of self-published, handwritten works cluttered every available surface.

“Samizdat,” said Newt shortly, noticing where Percival’s eyes lingered in his typical swift appraisal of his surroundings. “I’m glad your wards recognized me… we were ambushed on Hoverla.”

“Always were a lucky bastard,” said Yavorsky, turning to a wood cabinet. He offered them vodka, and then plated strips of herring and set out a jar of pickles. “Ambushed by whom?” he said, exhaling and throwing back the vodka, chasing it with a pickle.

“Wonder what a Kappa would make of a pickle?” said Newt. “Oh, I would surmise by our dragon poachers.”

“Soon as Newt put up a weather ward, they were on us,” said Percival, helping himself to some herring on rye bread. The salty fish was slimy, preserved in oil which soaked the dense bread. It left Percival thirsty. “Must have some sort of monitoring spell. Have you encountered them? There were ten, at the least, and they didn’t hesitate to strike hard.”

“I have record of brigands terrorizing the countryside while I was away,” Yavorsky nodded thoughtfully. “I wonder why they attack you?”

“I wonder, too. How did you manage to get here so quickly?” said Percival, eyeing the fireplace in the corner.

Yavorsky gave a guilty grin, but he did not seem shamed in the least.

“Friend in Istanbul has unofficial Floo for the right people. Yağmur says hello,” he added to Newt, “And that she will contact Romulus to find and smuggle out werewolves. She say Romushka is looking to start his own commune, but I think he wants to lead a pack,” Yavorsky chuckled. “Can you imagine them all running across his wheat fields in the moonlight? Poor man’s been so lonely he started growing Mandrakes. I think he was trying to teach little ones to speak, but they just scream, you know? And climate too cold for them there, anyway.” 

“That is inadvisable,” Newt agreed. “How’s Larissa? Little Vanya?”

“Oh, you know, I should have bought a different color of the stockings,” Yavorsky shrugged. “When will I be in Paris again? But she liked the rahat lokum. She’s back in town while we figure this out. The talk of brigands scared her away and she might be expecting again – we are not sure yet.”

“Oh,” said Newt, “ _oh_ , congratulations, perhaps.”

“Do the Soviet authorities let brigands roam, attacking at random?” said Percival, interrupting Newt’s fumbling niceties.

“Soviet authorities _are_ brigands,” said Yavorsky bitterly. “The Reds, the Whites, the Blacks, the Greens…”

“Anarchists and peasants?” said Newt, with some interest. “Good for them.”

“They were ruined,” said Yavorsky, shaking his head, “All ruined. And for what?”

“About those missing dragons,” said Percival. Yavorsky nodded, his expression changing. He waved his aspen wand at the Samovar in the fireplace, which began to emit smoke.

They discussed the situation over tea. It seemed Yavorsky had left wards to alert him to activity on the Reservation while he had gone to find and fetch Newt.

“No one of the old crew could keep watch?” Newt interrupted.

“No one is left,” said Yavorsky, shaking his head. “Not enough jobs, not enough food, not enough pay, not enough anything. I can stay because Vanushka send me supplies from Petrograd—no, now it’s _Leningrad_ —and because Skrypnyk knows we need someone to watch our ladies.”

“That’s not even a skeleton crew!” Newt said, indignant. “The amount of work, all for one person? That’s downright reckless, Matvei.”

“Larissa agrees,” Yavorsky said, raising his brows, or rather one brow – the other was just scorched skin – “but what can I do? I try to convince Skrypnyk. Listen,” he continued, “my wards tell me the brigands have been visiting the ladies, keeping their eye on them. ”

“As we suspected,” Newt nodded to himself. “Normally I’d infiltrate and leave their camp in flames, but I don’t want to spook the ladies. They’ve got to be on edge… it’s so strange that they do not defend themselves, though. I wonder.”

“Maybe we might ask the ladies for help, for old time’s sake, as you say?” said Yavorsky, tone nonchalant. Percival’s shoulders tensed.

“Because that worked so well during the Great War when the dragons tried to eat everyone,” Percival’s heavy eyebrows furrowed, his expression dark. “Unless it is your modus operandi to murder everyone involved or scatter them to the winds?” Neither Newt nor Yavorsky answered, and Percival fixed them with a dubious frown. “Right, that is a dreadful plan. Anything would be better. Hell, set a trap to subdue them, and leave them to the local authorities.”

“It may help us find the missing dragon eggs,” Newt nodded, “having someone to ask, someone who has not caught fire.”

“It’s all they deserve,” grumbled Yavorsky, and then he shrugged too. “But that’s fine too. It is the ladies we are doing this for. I suppose we are on the side of the angels—or dragons, as it were? We might as well proceed legally for the detective here.”

“You don’t seem to think much of the law,” Percival observed.

“The powerful make the law, change and abuse it to their advantage,” Yavorsky said, “so it is not such a rosy ideal, you say? As in your land. Idealism gone mad in the Soviet Union, in Weimar it seems too. Germans are crazy, I always say.”

“Corruption exists everywhere in different forms,” said Newt. “But we have a trap to plan.”

They spoke until it grew dark and the wind howled and Yavorsky had smoked a dozen cigarettes and Percival, two. Then Yavorsky fed them a dinner of sauerkraut and canned beans, grinning as if this was a feast. Afterwards, Newt went down into his case to complete his rounds. Percival elected to explore the cabin: it was a small place composed of three rooms. There were two doorways from the living and dining room. One bedroom had a black-and-white photograph of a younger Yavorsky without the scarring on his face and hand, handsome beside a smiling young lady in a white dress. The figures waved and beamed at Percival. Yavorsky’s room had stacks and files of handwritten manuscripts, too. Newt’s book lay among a messy pile of newspaper clippings of dragon sightings. Percival fished it out. Yavorsky’s neat cursive annotated the margins of Newt’s section on dragons. Newt had inscribed it, too, in Ukrainian. Percival put it down, feeling uneasy.

Yavorsky was watching him from the doorway. Percival raised his gaze to meet the other man’s grey-blue eyes.

“I see the way you look at each other,” Yavorsky said, meeting Percival’s gaze head-on. “I know Newt a long time but he rarely travels with companions. Humans, I mean,” Yavorsky smiled. It looked like a smirk, asymmetrical on his scarred face. Percival wondered if they were the same age, suddenly, and if Yavorsky and Newt…

“Take care of him,” Yavorsky said, looking unusually serious. “He is old friend and good man. The world needs more like him. Many people do not see it, but I think you do.”

“I will,” said Percival, his voice deeper than usual. “I do.”

Yavorsky grinned, then, and gestured him over to the living and entry room for more tea. Unlike Newt’s usual addition of milk, Yavorsky added lemon and gin to his tea, and regaled him with wartime stories. Percival’s mind conjured the image of a young Newt swooping through flames on an enormous grey dragon. Yavorsky had to kick his shin to bring him out of his reverie.

Newt emerged from the case much later, wincing, and Percival asked to see how his back was healing. This took some doing, because Newt was single-minded in his stubborn insistence that it was nothing. Finally, Percival raised his voice and Newt’s eyes widened. Percival took a step back.

“I just want to help. It’s why I came along in the first place,” said Percival, lowering his voice. “Dammit, Newt. Have I abused your trust?”

“No,” said Newt, hesitantly. “Of course not, Percival,” he would not meet Percival’s gaze but he did turn around, gingerly rolling up the back of his shirt.

“I just don’t understand what these poachers are doing. If they’ve been watching the dragons, if they’ve been selective in which eggs they take, it’s almost as if they’re trying to breed for some trait… And to separate mothers from their young, it’s horribly traumatic for both of them,” said Newt, almost plaintively. Percival came up behind him to gently unwrap the bandages from Newt’s torso. The bruises around the curse wound had faded, leaving pink skin to gather and wrinkle as it grew in.

“They wanted us to breed obedient dragons for the war, to turn them into weapons. We managed to convince them it was impossible, thank Merlin,” Newt said, sighing when Percival Summoned the unguent from his case and spread it generously across Newt’s back.

Percival’s breath was soft and warm on the back of Newt’s hair. Newt let his head fall against Percival’s shoulder, rolling his neck and closing his eyes to relax into the Auror.

“We’ll find the dragons and take care of the poachers,” said Percival. Unguent-slick fingers glided to rest against Newt’s waist, warm and tingling where their skin touched beneath Newt’s shirtsleeves, Percival’s breath tickling the side of Newt’s throat. Newt was lean and deceptively strong; Percival found this to be a comforting thought. He eased the suspenders from Newt’s shoulders.

Newt made a vague noise of assent in the back of his throat. Percival set the jar floating away and brought his other hand, dry and warm, to trace Newt’s collarbone, running his knuckles over the tendons in Newt’s neck. Percival’s expression softened when he elicited a shiver.

Newt pulled on the back of Percival’s head, twisting into a deep and languid kiss. He seemed to be pouring his sorrow and his worry, his concern and his longing into Percival’s warm mouth. There was nothing else. Percival’s hands roamed his body, Percival’s hair between his fingers, the feel of his magic, of juniper berries, decaying leaves, keen as the coiled power of a Basilisk…Newt lost himself in the sensation and the warmth. He pressed against Percival, learning the lines of his body against the contours of his own, the jolting pleasure subsumed by fondness and the tender headiness of anticipation.

Percival used his hands and his mouth, but it was his body that Newt admired as a whole in the dim light. They had not seen each other, before, and they made sure to touch, to feel and to gaze. Newt’s shyness melted in the warmth of quiet pleasure. He traced the curse marks on Percival’s stomach and side as though mourning the pain of a previous life. The broad shoulders, the dark hair on his chest, the scruff on his chin; Newt was determined to experience every texture and every part of Percival, to know all of him. Percival looked at him with such wonder that Newt felt breathless with it. And Percival told Newt to keep his hands on his shoulders as he worked them both with unguent-slick hands. Newt’s sweaty palms slid along Percival’s deltoids as they moved.

“Are you well, darling?” Percival said hoarsely, peering into Newt’s hooded, shining eyes. Newt gave a teary, crooked smile similar to the one that had distracted Percival in the middle of the Parisian street, weeks ago.

“Qui-quite well, Perce,” Newt whispered, and buried his face in the crook of Percival’s neck and shoulder, his breaths wet and tinged with a soft whine.

Languor and unhurried rhythms evolved to pressing urgency. Newt shuddered and Percival tensed, his tongue dancing across Newt’s throat, a heated flush enveloping Percival’s cheekbones, Newt’s face and shoulders and chest. There was movement, and afterwards contented quiet. Percival held Newt until he remembered himself again, sated, drowsy. Percival’s lips pressed chaste kisses along the magizoologist’s closed eyelids, the corner of twitching lips, a sweaty temple where strands of reddish hair were plastered in salt-tasting waves. Newt squirmed, ticklish, flailing somewhat in exhaustion until his limbs were wrapped around Percival.

Percival let Newt enfold him. He let himself be cocooned by the lean length of magizoologist, smelling of sweat and snow and sex, and beneath that, of tea and sage. Percival caressed the calluses, the freckles and scars on the hands and arms that held him.


	31. The Scamander Spiral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you as ever for the kudos & comments :3 they do make my day! and for reading in the first place. it's getting to be a long ride. 
> 
> I have been posting without editing properly, thoroughly, and I am sorry for it. I spent a little more time on this chapter than I have been on the past few, lately. I hope it helps. I am not sure. Is that flashback confusing? That second paragraph is my masterpiece, tho ;)

**Chapter 31:** The Scamander Spiral

 

The terrain was deceptively easy, at first, and Percival wondered why Newt and Yavorsky were pacing themselves, why they each carried a pack heavy with food, water, and medicinal potions. The morning sun was hidden behind the mountains as they descended along a sloping meadow. The wind bared yellow grass and dark rock beneath scarce snow and hoarfrost. The wizards Charmed their boots to resist slipping on the ice.

Draped in morning fog, Mount Hoverla’s blurry silhouette was remote and silent, haloed solemn by the rising sun. The serene vista bore no trace of yesterday’s spellfire.

After a time, the sloping meadow fell away to reveal a distant ridge of mountains, steppes stretching to the wrinkled horizon beneath the bright wintery morning light. The wizards followed a narrow, craggy path that wound between patches of deep snow and sheer rock face. The ice-slick terrain made the going treacherous. The branched path was a riverbed maze of snowmelt, a dried delta of labyrinthine canyons which hosted impromptu mountain streams in summer months. Water had stripped the rock in places, leaving rippling chambers and narrow, curving passages. Frozen waterfalls glistened from within dark crevices. There was no movement save that of reflected light, little sound save the wind.

Yavorsky led them along, Percival second with Newt bringing up the rear, hands in pockets and packs on shoulders. The suitcase remained in Yavorsky’s warded cabin. Newt had insisted that Percival be keyed into the wards, too.

“Dragons don’t like the sound or the magical abruptness of Apparition, generally,” Newt had said as they were packing.

It had been difficult to get out of bed. Percival had woken ensconced in Newt’s long limbs, the magizoologist’s eyes sleepy and impossibly fond. Newt had buried his face in the crook of Percival’s neck, his breath tickling Percival’s morning stubble.

“Have you read Mr. Carroll’s book about a little girl who ends up in a different land? It’s a disguised response to Mr. Darwin’s book, in some scenes. It also features talking animals, among them the Diricrawl. Though Mr. Carroll refers to it as the Dodo bird. There’s a unicorn and a gryphon, too. But the girl, she says at one point that she is skilled at giving good advice, but she can very seldom follow it.”

Graves huffed a warm breath across Newt’s ear and said, “Did you just compare your former teacher to a little girl in a storybook?”

“Storybooks seem strangely portentous of late,” Newt had observed into the crook of Percival’s neck.

“Fairy and story both come from the stem _fatum_ , in Latin,” said Percival absently. “Fate, death. Thus fairy stories are doubly deadly. Deathly, perhaps.”

Newt had stretched, impossibly long, and Percival had abandoned his etymological inquiries in favor of other pursuits.

Following Yavorsky now, Percival recalled the smell of Newt, the sounds he made when Percival’s teeth had pressed marks into his throat, along his jaw. He had tasted of sweat and wool and dirt, a hint of some herbal tea or potion, the Murtlap essence in the unguent, perhaps? Newt had blushed a fetching red, stifling his laughter and his moans with the back of his hand. He had squirmed and surrendered to Percival’s touch, pliant as a Puffskein, lips parted and head thrown back. Percival had failed a second time to resist that inviting stretch of long, pale throat, had pinned Newt’s bony wrists above his head. Oh, the length of him, writhing not unlike an Occamy, sleepy-docile and tempting, eyes bright, lips quirked, all unknowing provocation. Or perhaps more knowing than he let on, Percival mused.

Newt spoke and startled Percival from his recollections.

“If you must Apparate around a dragon, be sure to do it quietly so you don’t startle them. They’re really very sweet, but scaring them brings out defensive instincts in all creatures, and the ladies have seen Muggle artillery fire.”

“Didn’t you Side-Along Wasyliok at one point in the July Offensive?” said Yavorsky with a sly look at Newt.

“Who can tell?” said Newt, “It’s all a blur,” he added, a faint, guilty smile stealing across his face.

“Nearly Splinched both of you, you idiot,” said Yavorsky through his own grin. “The Soviets have trouble recognizing Apparition out here, though, since we’re Unplottable. So Apparating into my cabin’s wards should not attract too many attention.”

Percival was wrapping him mind around the idea that it was possible to Side-Along a dragon. It was difficult to believe, but this was Newt. Newt, who had held him, just last night. Newt, who been irritatingly coherent until he was not, until his breaths were sweet gasps verging on vocalization…Newt, who had looked at him with such tenderness, after—the same Newt, riding and Apparating dragons. Percival steadied himself and his wandering thoughts.

The path tapered so that Percival and Yavorsky were forced to walk sideways; Newt’s narrow shoulders fit, barely, in the space between the rock walls of the canyon. Percival gazed up at the distant blue sky to stave off breathlessness. He could not ignore the feeling, now, that this was a trap. He remembered vividly the day Grindelwald had ambushed him on his way back from MACUSA, the streetlamps flickering and the October wind biting through his coat, the empty street full of shadows. Percival shook his head, gaze fixed skyward. Trickles of frozen water had formed icicles along the sides of the steep ravine. And then they were through, and in the valley of dragons. Percival felt Yavorsky’s monitoring wards wash over his skin.

The mountains cast long, grey shadows so that it was difficult to discern the forms of the grey-scaled and enormous dragons with glinting, blood-red eyes. Gravel and rock gave way to long, yellow grass worn smooth beneath the heft of reclining dragons, charred in some places and gleaming with last night’s frost. Mountains ringed the valley and the sun was just beginning to crest the snowy peaks in the east. Evergreens looked black in the dim morning light, and a lawn of enchanted, fireproof grass drew Percival’s eye, an emerald green piece of meadow that matched a habitat in Newt’s case, dotted with buttercups and cattails. A swift mountain river descended through the enchanted valley, rushing clear and cold into ice-glazed canyons and out of sight.

The idyll was completed by pillars of rock, natural or magical formations (Percival could not say) that stretched to the sky like oversized perches. The mountainside on far end of the valley gaped dark with the mouth of a vast cavern. Though it gleamed with frost, the valley itself held little snow. Sheltered from the wind, it was significantly warmer here than the meadow path from Yavorsky’s cabin. 

“The heart of the Reservation,” said Yavorsky, gesturing grandly.

Newt stood still, breathing deeply. His shoulders straightened perceptibly. The shadows shifted, dragons sniffing.

“Steeped in nostalgia, this place,” said Yavorsky, and Newt nodded.

Percival did not often think of the war, if he could help it. Though over the past year the fresh terrors inflicted by Grindelwald had joined the old dreams, the war still felt too fresh. Newt must have been very young when he served—he still looked young, despite the faint laugh lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth. They were crinkling a bit now, as Newt surveyed the valley and brightened at the sight of some dozing, other watchful dragons. There was a deep, resounding growl, like a very low purr. Then the ground seemed to shake and a great dragon soared down from its roost on a stone pillar and alighted on the gravel before them. It was enormous, easily sixty feet long, a ridge of horns like a crown on its head, dark grey and sinisterly sharp. Its vicious claws left marks in the stone, and it wafted steam and saliva when it bared its pointed teeth. There was a tiny chink in its scales, as though one was missing near the center of its belly, revealing pink and black-specked skin that matched the inside of its mouth when it yawned and jerked its head down.

The dragon let out another, much softer roaring-purr into Newt’s face, craning its long neck down until its head was level with Newt. Newt grinned and patted its nose. His face fell momentarily as he looked over the dragon, his joy replaced by comprehension and rage. It was a new expression, a stern, fierce set to his eyes and mouth. His clear eyes grew momentarily distant, and then he turned his attention back to the dragon, and the expression faded but did not disappear completely.

“Wasya!” said Newt, “There’s my old girl! Have you been hunting goats again?”

There were tufts of fur lodged between Wasya’s pointed teeth. The dragon preened, and Yavorsky stepped to the side and pulled Percival back several paces.

“Give them a little minute,” said Yavorsky, looking amused. “You know, war friends, yes?”

They waited at a respectable distance. After Newt had patted Wasya, stirring dragons rose and emerged from the shadows of the valley. There were half a dozen full-sized Ukrainian Ironbellies, each vying for Newt’s attention, nostrils belching steam, ominously spiked tails swaying, blood-red eyes fixed on the magizoologist’s beaming face. The smaller dragons stayed back, evidently unused to humans, and eyed the three men with wariness. The adults flapped their wings and lowered their heads and butted each other to get close to Newt, who seemed near laughter. A terrified Pickett peeked out from Newt’s pocket and then burrowed back down.

Newt lavished attention on each dragon while Percival and Yavorsky levitated the enchanted eggs into the nests high on the stone perches. Though they would never fool a dragon, the replica eggs would certainly dupe an unknowing human poacher. Charmed to attract thieves with an Eye-of-the-Beholder Charm, the fake eggs would be stolen before the real ones—and they would hatch a nasty surprise, a sticky Tracking Jinx modified by Percival to respond to his summons and to stun any human in the vicinity.

The wandwork was delicate, as Newt had insisted, for Yavorsky and Percival had to place each false egg without disturbing the genuine hatchlings. Once the decoys were placed, Percival took a deep drink from his canteen. He looked up and tried to reconcile the happiness on Newt’s face with the fearsome beasts he was petting. Yavorsky took one look at Percival’s expression and laughed.

“Don’t worry! Worry means you suffer twice,” Yavorsky grinned, “He’s safer than we are.”

“Might we try an experiment?” said Percival, looking away from the human Ukrainian. He withdrew a small bundle wrapped in a handkerchief from his coat pocket and set it upon a wide, flat rock. He waved at Newt, and the magizoologist looked between the handkerchief and Percival with something like regret, but then he addressed the largest of the dragons.

“Wasya! Could you please try to burn that object just there?” said Newt, as though he were addressing a colleague. Yavorsky pulled Percival further back as Wasya opened her mouth, an orange-yellow glow emanating from her nostrils and esophagus. Then the rock was enveloped in flames, growing red-hot, the surrounding frost hissing as it sublimated.

Newt gave a quick gesture and Wasya broke off the stream of fire, coughed a small fireball and nudged Newt’s side with a steaming nose. Newt gave more indulgent pats on the nose, pleased by the attention. Wasya blinked at him, and growled suddenly, sniffing the air in the direction of the cavern. The other dragons shifted.

Percival’s gaze was fixed on the rock. Red hot and steaming, molten metal was leaking from within the white handkerchief. His eyes widened.

“What is it, Wasyliok?” said Newt, looking about to find the disturbance. “Too many people making you nervous? Or is someone else coming this way? What d’you sense, darling?”

Wasya sneezed and took flight. Her massive claws left deep grooves in the rock as she sprang up into the air. She flew straight up, circling higher about her stone perch, jets of flame shooting from wide jaws. Her eyes were fixed on the sky. Newt gaped, craning his neck to search the sky, the valley, the mountains. The other dragons ascended, beating their wings, to follow Wasya and guard their respective nests. 

“Disillusioned and on broomsticks!” cried Yavorsky, and deflected the first streak of red in a rain of Stunners. His wards rang on the edge of hearing.

Newt took a breath and let out a great roar, which gave the dragons pause. All of them resumed their agitated flight, paying no mind to Newt. All but one. Newt performed a complicated spinning motion with his left arm and Wasya dove and pulled up, one wing folded and the other extended, to circle her perch, shooting swirling tongues of flame that spread in a whirlwind across the sky, great spirals of orange flame netting the heavens.

It was as mesmerizing as it was effective. There were shouts of pain. Patches of air seemed to catch fire, to swear and douse themselves with water. Wizards on broomsticks materialized from beneath fraying Disillusionment charms, their aim set for Wasya and for Newt, who sidestepped into the shelter of a rock formation.

“The Scamander Spiral!” cried Yavorsky with a great, high-pitched laugh. “Never thought I would see that again! _Protego!_ ”

Percival had been staring at his white handkerchief while warding off Stunners with lazy flicks of his wand. He saw Newt, leaning out from behind the stone perch and Shielding Wasya, who was holding her own quite well. Percival had read that Ukrainian Ironbelly scales were impervious to most spells, had read it in Newt’s own words. What was Newt playing at, risking his own neck for Wasya, who could handle herself? He conjured up a shield and walked calmly through the red rain of curses and of dragon-breath to join Newt, who was panting and visibly shaken.

“We need to let them get the false eggs, remember?” Percival said, encasing the both of them in his shield.

“I don’t want their home turned into a battlefield,” Newt muttered, leaning around Percival to survey the battle with wide eyes.

“I know,” said Percival, laying his left hand on Newt’s shoulder. “But we must let them take the false eggs. One last time, Newt, and we’ll have them.”

Yavorsky trying to shoot the poachers out of the sky with great relish. Pickett was chittering away into Newt’s ear, peeking out of the pocket and waving his little arms about in a frenzy. Newt tore his gaze away from Wasya’s mad circling. His eyes were wet with tears.

“What is it, Pickett? They’re tormenting Wasya.”

Pickett did not relent. He pulled on Newt’s left ear and Newt turned toward the gaping blackness of the cave entrance on the other side of the valley. There was a short, broad-shouldered silhouette approaching, neck craned to gaze up at the poachers and their broomsticks. The figure was holding a wand in a strange grip. Percival tensed.

“Mercy Lewis,” he said hoarsely, stepping past Newt. “It’s that goblin bastard, I should have known. Let me deal with this, Newt. Could you please retrieve my handkerchief? It’s important,” he said, and strode toward the figure, leaving a mystified Newt staring after him.

Pickett squeaked angrily and Newt said, “I would never, you know that I would never have let him keep you!”

He cast a reassuring glance at the Bowtruckle on his shoulder and sprang from behind his cover to grab the white handkerchief. Except there was already a man bending over to pick it up, a man with a broomstick over his shoulder, with grey hair, brown eyes and a golden locket around his neck.

“I knew the wretched blood-traitor had carted it off to Paris,” the man muttered, grabbing the handkerchief, melted ring and all.

“Excuse me,” said Newt, “But I’m afraid that’s my friend’s handkerchief and I would like it back now.”

“Hm?” said the man, turning to face Newt with an unpleasant expression, as though a cockroach he was about to step on had suddenly asked him for a cigarette. “Who are you, one of the Prewetts? This is none of your bloody business, boy. It’s not a handkerchief. It’s a family heirloom of the ancient and most pure House of Gaunt!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a PostScript: if you are wondering where the story title comes from, it's from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cWZVIcpR7yA) & was not a plot point, until it becomes one...
> 
> PPS Wasya's name is short for Wasyliok, which is a blue flower. Vasya is usually short for Vasiliy, a man's name, but I took liberties here. Also a dragon named after a flower tickles me immensely :)
> 
> PPPS oh, I might mention Percival's claustrophobic, it's why he was uncomfortable on the plane and in the canyon, in this chapter--this has to do with Grindelwald's keeping him prisoner, but hasn't been made explicit.
> 
> PPPPS? Next ch 32: Gnarlak and the Dragon-mouth (cos Marvolo is a parselmouth, remember)


	32. Gnarlak and the Dragon-mouth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> am partway thru 35 and not sure exactly how many chapters to go. Thank you for the comments & kudos, they do make me incredibly happy <3 <3
> 
> I suppose I should issue A WARNING--I removed various tags, they would have applied to this and future chapters. Tags concerning: violence and near-death experiences, non-con and dub-con w/ various flavors of non-con drug use (of a sort) and just a rather dark and twisty denouement. There's cruelty, because Gellert has me wrapped around his little finger, and there's anxiety and some dissociation, as characters deal w/ trauma. Please be aware going forward that it will be dark and darker for a little while. I do not love you less for it :)
> 
> On a much happier note!! I commissioned the fantastic illustration from the exceedingly lovely and talented Axilarts [(tumblr)](https://axilarts.tumblr.com/) \-- I am very, very grateful to them.

**Chapter 32:** Gnarlak and the Dragon-mouth

“You’re mad,” said Newt. “It’s clearly a handkerchief. There was a signet ring from a pawnshop in Paris, but the ring melted.”

“Melted, did it?” said Gaunt. “Why didn’t the handkerchief burn then, eh? Riddle me that, you half-wit beast-lover.”

Newt blinked.

“Your friend fooled you,” leered the man, a nasty smirk twisting his face into an ugly mask. “Must not trust you, eh, Prewett? Fine bit of Transfiguration, swapping the ring and the handkerchief. But I’ll be taking what’s mine now.”

“Wait,” muttered Newt, “How did you know that the ring was in Paris? How did you find it here?”

The man gave Newt a derisive glare and turned to leave. Swift and soundless, Newt Apparated to block the canyon path. Madly whirling dragons, half-Disillusioned poachers and the figures of Percival and Gnarlak, who looked to be on the brink of a duel, blocked the cavern passage on the other end of the valley. Gaunt’s eyes darted to and fro, an aggressive flame dancing in them when they landed on the magizoologist once more. Compared to the chaos of the valley, the unassuming young wizard would be easy to get past.

“Out of my way!” Gaunt snarled, whipping his wand to send a Severing spell at Newt.

Newt blocked and took a step forward.

“Answer me,” he said doggedly.

But the man bared his teeth, rage widening his eyes and augmenting the power of his spells. He charged, and Newt blocked again, quickly, but with insufficient power behind his shield. He felt the blood soak his arm before the pain of the curse had him gasping and staggering against the canyon wall. Adrenaline and instinct put Newt on the offensive: he blocked, ducked and immobilized the man with a swift Leg-Binding Jinx. Gaunt fell, wand out of reach, face red and apoplectic. Newt dug about his pockets for Dittany before he swayed, lightheaded, and Pickett was handing him the vial. Uncorking it with his teeth, Newt poured it to steam and stem the wound on his upper arm.

Steadying himself against the canyon, Newt knelt onto his haunches next to the seething, spitting, swearing man. Newt asked politely after the handkerchief. Gaunt swiped at him, fist nearly connecting with Newt’s face. Newt frowned and tilted his head in mild irritation.

“What was your name?” he said, giving the man a cool once-over. “Gaunt?”

“Marvolo Gaunt, you wretched Prewett offspring,” snarled the man, doing his utmost to fling insults, rocks and spittle toward Newt. He was clutching the handkerchief to his chest like it was his child.

 “Right,” said Newt, “Can you please tell me how… actually, hold that thought,” he withdrew the small, clear vial he had nearly emptied beneath the library of Bucharest University and levitated three drops of the potion directly into Marvolo’s mouth before the other could blink. There followed a slew of slurs, some coughing, and a blessed quietness.

“Sorry about that,” said Newt, not looking sorry at all. “But you weren’t going to tell me the truth, I don’t think. Could you please tell me what you think that handkerchief is? And how it got here, and how you knew it would be here?”

Marvolo coughed and glared, and then he spoke, punctuating his words with vicious jabbing and swearing. Newt averted his eyes almost carelessly throughout this speech. He seemed bored with Marvolo’s vulgar manner.

“It’s an heirloom of the ancient and most pure House of Gaunt, I told you! That wretched Squib girl-child eloped with the filthy Muggle. She stole it, she stole it because she knew it was worth ten of her!” said Marvolo, his rage simmering beneath the thin and artificial calm of Veritaserum. “It’s been in the family for generations, passed down from father to son since the great Salazar Slytherin himself!” he pounded a hand over his chest and the golden locket bounced, “When I got out of Azkaban to find it missing, I knew she had taken it! And I was right!”

“If it’s an heirloom, does it not belong to your children anyway? Why not let your daughter take it?” said Newt mildly, and Marvolo growled.

“Not to her! Never to that waste of space! That Muggle-loving filth! Oh, she will pay when I find her!”

Newt rubbed the bridge of his nose and waited for Marvolo to conclude his latest slew of profanity. A large raven was circling the valley as though observing the battle below. Newt followed it with his eyes. It was awfully brave, considering the dragons... 

Percival seemed to be holding his own against Gnarlak, though the Goblin was fighting with two wands. Wasya had alighted on her perch, sending occasional jets of flame at poachers who flew too near. Newt sighed. There were far too many disruptive, opportunistic, greedy wizards, far too many humans being typically human in what was supposed to be a Reservation. He had failed the dragons, failed to guard their eggs and protect their home, failed to make the valley safe enough to avoid _this_. He had to fix this.

Marvolo was speaking:

“She took it with that Muggle swine on her honeymoon to Paris, and they sold it there—more the fools they! I Owled the families, the true pure-blooded families who know the value of magical blood, I asked them to Stun her on sight and return my heirloom. Along backchannels and byways, I sought to find what was mine by blood! But it was my cellmates in Azkaban who eventually led me here! Yes,” Marvolo turned bright, glazed brown eyes to the handkerchief. “I met Victor Rosier in Azkaban, and he introduced me to Andrei Dolohov and Vladimir Burke. Burke’s got connections on the black market, he knows people. Told me he and Dolohov were working with an American gangster goblin, this Gnarlak half-breed. They told me Gnarlak was searching for a Parselmouth like myself to distract these damn troublesome big snakes while his people snatched the eggs they wanted. Promised to help me scour the black market for my heirloom, they did. But then you went and brought it direct to me instead!” Marvolo’s face was flushed but his brown eyes gleamed with malicious joy when he raised them to meet Newt’s gaze. “It’s enchanted to seek out my family, I always knew it. Imbued with our magical signature. No mere Prewett could keep me from my blood-given right!”

Marvolo ended his triumphant monologue by spitting at Newt’s feet. Newt blinked and posed two more questions.

“Which eggs did Gnarlak’s people want, precisely? Where are the hatchlings?” said Newt, turning an intent, cold gaze upon Marvolo.

* * *

“If it isn’t MACUSA’s disgraced former Director,” drawled Gnarlak, a smirk twisting his wide mouth. “You don’t want to interfere with my operation here, Graves. It might end badly for you,” he continued. He held a yew wand between the knuckles of overextended fingers. 

“Gnarlak,” said Percival. “How careless of you, leaving the Blind Pig unattended. You must be counting on quite a windfall.”

“I don’t think that’s any of your business, Mr. Graves,” said Gnarlak. “Seeing as this isn’t your jurisdiction.”

“Nor is this your usual racket,” said Percival. “Seems we’re both full of surprises.”

 Gnarlak’s dark eyes flitted skyward and he deflected a stray jet of dragonfire which scorched the ground near his loafers. Yavorsky was dueling a man with a thin, pale face, enlisting the help of the dragons in his fighting. Percival was momentarily distracted by the enormous, scarred grey Ironbelly which swooped just over their heads to swipe at and narrowly miss Yavorsky’s adversary.

Sensing Percival’s distraction, Gnarlak fired off a Stunner and then dove with astonishing speed to avoid his own rebounding curse. A humorless smile twisted Percival’s mouth.

“Tina told me you were up to something,” he said, firing off an _Incarcerous_ which Gnarlak deflected. “I should have followed up before it got this far. Where’ve you stashed the stolen property, Gnarlak?”

Percival ignored the sound of Apparition—hadn’t Newt warned him to avoid doing just that?—and he pushed back, sending a diverse array of curses to keep the goblin on his toes. Gnarlak whipped out a second wand and dueled ambidextrously, but his broken fingers compromised his grip and slowed his wrist movement. Percival was steadily backing him into the cavern, preparing to collapse a moderate amount of rock onto him—to disarm, not to kill—when Yavorsky’s scarred dragon gave a great roar and slammed bodily into the cavern wall. Gnarlak sprang toward Percival and bowled him aside, great chunks of the rock collapsing beneath the impact of Hyvrael’s weight. Percival and Gnarlak went rolling across sharp gravel and down, further, toward the chill and swift-running river.

Gnarlak lost one of his wands, hand scrabbling madly for purchase on shifting sand and rock. His other hand clutched at Percival’s wand arm, keeping the Auror’s wrath at bay. Percival groaned beneath their combined weight and managed to throw Gnarlak’s grip just in time to send a length of rope to loop about a nearby fir-tree. Half a moment later they were submerged in icy water.

The cold burned his skin and drained Percival’s strength. It seemed to set the air in his lungs to ice. His clothes stuck to him, coat restricting his kicking legs, the sleeves weighing down his arms. Percival wrenched his wand arm up, willing his swiftly numbing fingers to stay clenched, nails biting into his palm. Water gushed all around, into his nose and mouth and eyes. He coughed and the icy water invaded his lungs.

The rope at the tip of Percival’s wand held, and Percival’s frigid grip on his wand held, and Gnarlak held onto Percival’s lapels for dear life. Percival elbowed him across the jaw, brought his elbow back to strike his neck. The goblin groaned and was lost to the current, but Percival did not pause to celebrate. His hands and feet felt foreign, his entire body numb. He willed his magic into action, and his wand began to pull him to the tree and against the sweeping current.

 His only remaining warmth, magic burned his chilled arteries and veins. At last, he was stumbling from the water, stiff and beginning to tremble, teeth chattering and nose running, water streaming from hoarse, hacking coughs. Gnarlak was crawling out onto the gravel downstream, sneezing uncontrollably. The fight had all but gone out of the goblin. Percival didn't see a wand on him, but he did not discount Gnarlak’s cunning.

Percival arose, trembling, and dried himself off with nonverbal charms. He threw his head back, water and sand sloshing from his hair. It was in dreadful disarray, he was sure. His eyes searched out Newt’s mop of red-gold hair, kneeling beside an old wizard who was clutching his handkerchief.

“Oi! Graves!” cried Yavorsky, “Could use another wand, here!”

Yavorsky’s short, silver-yellow hair seemed to shine in the pre-dawn light. Most of the dragons had settled onto their perches, curled about their nests with fiery eyes fixed on the wizards below. Wasya alone was on the ground, her head following Newt’s movements. The other dragons let out an occasional jet of flame kept the poachers at bay, but the wizards on broomsticks were focused on different prey now. They circled Yavorsky, raining curses on him from all sides. The Ukrainian was putting up an admirable defense but none of his offensive spells were landing. Percival squinted against the dim morning light. His eyebrows dripped cold water and he blinked. Yavorsky’s violet and blue curses were being absorbed by something set into the handles of each poacher’s broomstick. Percival could make out a glint of iron-grey, like a tarnished Sickle or Dragot.

He cast an experimental Stunner and watched the coin-like object glow momentarily red as it absorbed his spell. Yavorsky caught his eye and shouted,

“Ironbelly shield scales!”

 “What?” said Percival, channeling a fair bit of magic to maintain a shield about himself and Yavorsky.

“They absorb magic, the scales! Make the Ironbellies seem to deflect magic, but really each dragon has one or two shield scales that absorbs and diffuses curses. This must be what they steal dragon eggs for, to take their shield scales! Black market pay good money for it, the bastards.”

Percival remembered, suddenly, Newt’s face falling when he had looked over his old dragon, Wasyliok. Newt’s face falling when he had seen the missing scale that had been forcibly removed, harvested from a living dragon. How had the poachers managed such a feat? Had they drugged the dragons? Their food supply? This explained why Newt had defended Wasya from spellfire, why he had sent her away from the battle. Without her shield scale, the Ukrainian Ironbelly was vulnerable. So too, was Hyvrael, the scarred dragon which had crashed into the mountainside nearly crushing Gnarlak and Percival earlier.

“Can we overload the scales?” he asked Yavorsky.

“No, needs too much magic,” Yavorsky muttered, a frown marring his scarred face into a craggy maze of reddish-white lines. “ _Accio!_ ” he called, but the scale absorbed the Summoning charm as well. 

Percival waved his wand, Summoning the broomstick, but the poacher astride it countered his spell. He was the one Yavorsky had been dueling, and his pale, thin face was contorted in laughter, his wand glowing with another Blasting curse. Percival was becoming increasingly aware that his shields would not last forever.

And that was when an enormous boulder floated through the sky to knock the laughing wizard from his broom, sending him flying. Percival turned, astonished, to see Newt levitating rock, sand, and dirt into a whirlwind sandstorm to knock the wizards from the air. Percival was reminded of the Parisian street and the Thestrals, and he sprang forward to Stun and bind a fallen poacher before he could gather himself from the ground. Bloodied, bruised and startled, most of the poachers retreated to higher altitudes and ceased firing off curses. Yavorsky stepped in, and Percival turned to Newt gratefully. And he froze.

Newt was frozen, too, left hand raised in entreaty, wand up and eyes wide. Gnarlak was pointing his second wand at Wasya, the tip glowing green. And then Newt was between the goblin and the dragon, his arms spread, his Apparition a soundless flurry of movement and desperation. The green light accompanied by the fatal words left Gnarlak’s wand and arced toward Newt’s chest. Newt’s face was calm in that fraction of a second, the green shining off his copper hair and clear eyes. Percival would not forget that sight.

Someone was shouting, Percival was shouting. A great chunk of earth, of rock and dirt, lifted from before Newt and absorbed the curse, fragments of rock and roots and flobberworm and mud exploding in a shower of pebbles and a shockwave that lifted all the hairs along Percival’s arms and neck. Newt was thrown clear, Percival and Yavorsky blasted several meters back. Gnarlak was blinking, puzzled, and then a frightened expression crossed his face.

Percival had not lost control of his magic for years. He glanced about, blinking the sand from his eyes, coughing. Gnarlak was beating a hasty retreat, shooting horrified glances over his shoulder. Percival did not spare him another thought. He was beyond the small crater and at Newt’s side in an instant, assessing the damage, hands clutching at Newt’s wrist, his neck, checking for a pulse.

His eyes prickled and stung. It was the sand. The dragon Newt had been protecting was nosing at Newt’s still form mournfully. Pickett, one of his leaf-tips scorched, was peeking out from Newt’s pocket with frightened little eyes. Faintly, Percival registered a _crack_ of Disapparition, and the dragons shifted restlessly. The man who had snatched up Percival’s handkerchief was gone, but none of it really mattered if…

He had done this for countless dead nomajes, for his partners and colleagues, for strangers and friends. He had felt for Newt’s pulse often enough, too, when they were abroad the Orient Express and on the nomaj aeroplane. Newt’s wrists were narrow and sensitive. Percival had delighted in this fact, his thumbs and fingers wrapping around those bony wrists softly, insistently, Newt’s pulse responsive, head lowered to hide his smile and the faint blush that would rise whenever Percival stared intently at him… Percival felt for Newt’s pulse with tentative care, with dread roiling in his stomach and a bitter ache climbing the back of his throat.

At first he felt nothing. And then, that same, steady pulse! Percival’s shoulders sagged. He was breathless with feeling, cradling Newt's wrist, his head, his face, exhilarated and disbelieving.

“He’s alive!” he cried hoarsely, in the direction of where Yavorsky had been. But Yavorsky was nowhere to be seen. “Who? _Ennervate!_ Newt? Can you hear me, darling? Oh, thank Morgana, Merlin and Mercy.”

“Certainly no thanks to you,” said a soft voice behind him.

The hex left his wand before he had time to rise and whirl around. Grindelwald deflected easily, tilting his head at Percival with a skeptical frown. “I thought you were going to protect him, Percy. What use are you, if you can’t even do that?”


	33. this kind Nepenthe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this scene gave me no end of trouble in revisions, and I am afraid the revelations may come too abruptly, but i'm going to leave it here anywa. I should warn you, there's violence and disturbing content below. And there will be more.
> 
> indeed, the chapter after this one is fairly dark, and has illustrations! but not 'til next week.
> 
> Also, thank you (so much!) for kudos & comments, they are amazing and wonderful and make me absurdly happy, every single one <3 Be well!!
> 
> PS how about that trailer, eh?
> 
> PPS who can spot the Dune reference? there's also some song lyrics masquerading as dialogue, haha, but it's subtle

**Chapter 33:** this kind Nepenthe

 **  
** “It’s a mutual arrangement,” said Newt weakly from behind Percival, wincing as he raised himself from the ground. “Thanks for the save, Gellert.”

Percival felt that hair-raising focus shift to Newt, felt himself relegated to the background like another piece of scenery. Grindelwald had been wont to treat Percival as an object, before he had buried him alive… Back when he had impersonated the DMLE, when Percival had prized his career above all else. Grindelwald had tried to ruin what he loved then, too.

“I would appreciate it, Newton,” said Grindelwald, very softly, “if you could kindly rein in your suicidal tendencies until after you’ve served me.”

He wore a powder blue waistcoat, navy trousers and white shirtsleeves. A black cravat was tied loosely beneath the upturned collar of the white shirt, a dark, collared coat draped artfully over the entire outfit. Black military boots gleamed with polish, offsetting the blond hair which was doing its best to escape the spiked hairstyle and turn into loose curls. Grindelwald’s mouth was set in a moue of distaste beneath his white mustache.

“Is this full Dark Lord regalia, then?” said Newt tiredly. 

“Work clothes,” said Grindelwald, giving himself a self-conscious once-over and then a slight shrug, as if to say, what can you do? Miniaturized horn-vials of potions dangled from his pocket watch chain and clinked when he moved.

“What have you done with the missing dragon eggs, then?” said Newt. He seemed strangely detached from the dread that had been building since his last encounter with Grindelwald. He spoke as though he were dreaming. Percival was surprised to see no trace of the ardor and indignation he had come to expect from Newt when it came to the abuse of beasts. Percival helped Newt stand, hauling him up by an arm. He did not need to feel Newt’s rapid pulse to know that the magizoologist was shaken. But Percival peered fleetingly into his thoughts, and glimpsed the green light searing Newt’s retinas, still. The shockwave of his sudden rescue seemed lodged in his throat and his bones. Percival’s hand was the one grounding influence keeping Newt from floating up into the thinning atmosphere, past dragons and clouds amid the fading stars.

“To be honest, I’ve so many plans and plans within plans that it’s dizzying to keep track of them all,” said Grindelwald airily. “But I do keep watch. I see you _endlessly_ , Newton.”

Newt swallowed. The missing dragons—he had to focus on them and not on the dread blossoming like a flower of ice in his chest. “I assume you contributed resources for a cut of the goods, that’s how this usually works. I will requisition the stolen eggs—they must be young dragons by now. What’s been done to them? Are they alive?”

Percival was looking between Newt and Grindelwald, insinuating himself between them as though to block the magizoologist with his body.

A huge raven flapped down to land on a nearby rock outcropping. Its landing was awkward, as though it did not quite trust its legs. It cocked its head toward the cavern and gave a loud _Caw!_

“You don’t wish to know how I’ve been?” Grindelwald looked put out. “Very well. What will you do for me, if I help you?”

“I could give you a head start before I call the authorities,” said Newt. He winced, squeezed his eyes shut, and settled a weary gaze on Grindelwald’s shiny boots. “Did you require some potion ingredient, some rare substance? I come across all sorts of treasures along my travels. As long as it does not hurt my creatures or those under my protection, I might barter it.”

Grindelwald scoffed.

“The only treasure I covet is your service, Newton,” said Grindelwald, voice wistful and low.

Newt looked up, confusion written in the lines of his face. “I told you before, I’m not one of your fanatics,” said Newt, his hand squeezing Percival’s warm hand. “I will not serve your vision of utopia built on the backs of Muggles.” 

Mismatched eyes darted to Newt’s mouth, to his and Percival’s joined hands, and Grindelwald’s own mouth quirked. The dark wizard dropped the affectation of melancholy and for a moment, calculating mischief gleamed violent and dark in his gaze.

“Only those who deserve it would be harmed, and their sacrifice would be honored,” Grindelwald promised. “Wizards and beasts alike would finally live free.”

“We have very different ideas about who deserves harm,” Newt shot back. The blossoming fear constricted his chest like some brachial Devil’s Snare, but his responses seemed too easy. He must be in shock, Newt reflected absently. Grindelwald shook his head.

“Not in this case,” he said, voice dramatically hoarse. “I have no doubt. You will exceed your limits.”

“He won’t be helping you,” said Percival, his voice a low growl, his patience with the conversation at an end.

“But if you’re feeling helpful,” added Newt, “Be a dear and assist us with these poachers?” 

Grindelwald smiled thinly and turned on his heel to survey the valley. He gave the Elder wand a compact flick: the poachers were bound hand and foot. Another flick: the crater was restored to a lush, green meadow. Newt tilted his head to peer with wide eyes from beneath his fringe. Percival was tugging on his hand, but Newt refused to budge.

With a final wave of his wand, Grindelwald brought an immobilized and pale Gnarlak into view. The goblin must have been lurking in the cavern, sweat and water mixing with mud on his long, wide face. He could not move or speak, but his eyes were dark with emotion.

“Let me get that for you,” said Grindelwald, flicking his wand delicately. A thin stream of warping air extended from the tip of the white wand toward Gnarlak, who would have flinched had he been capable of movement. A dragon-hide wallet floated out from Gnarlak’s coat and opened in the air before them. It turned over, and out floated three large, shiny silver eggs. They reminded Percival of Newt’s Occamy eggs, only larger and duller, almost steely in their shine. One was cracked. The air around them vibrated with a strong Stasis spell. Newt gasped and rushed forward to cradle the eggs in his arms.

He was distracted and missed the transformation, but Percival saw Grindelwald give his wand a twirl and suddenly Gnarlak was gone, a large, black beetle clicking its pincers where the goblin had floated. Grindelwald waved his wand and the beetle was inside a jar, the jar was in Grindelwald’s pocket, and the goblin was nowhere.

“Don’t kill him!” said Newt, looking alarmed over his armful of dragon eggs.

Grindelwald turned to Newt and splayed his hands in an affected, naïve gesture of helplessness.

“Would you prefer the Goblin killed you and stuffed your pet?”

“Deterring poachers does not require lethal measures,” Newt protested, laying the eggs gently at intervals into the tall, yellow grass. “And Wasya’s not my pet.”

“You do not believe dragons can be used in battle, Newton?” said Grindelwald. Something in his tone had changed.

Percival looked between Newt, Grindelwald, the large Raven sitting on the outcropping of rock, the shiftless dragons… the air felt dense with tension. Newt was bruised and bloodied, his pocketwatch hanging from its chain and brushing the yellow grass where he knelt. Percival regarded it, his eyes growing distant.

Newt was speaking earnestly: “One can’t tame dragons; it’s simply not in their nature to follow orders. Any attempt to turn them into weapons is misguided and doomed from the start. Wasya’s my friend, and she’s far from tame.”

“Hmm,” said Grindelwald, gazing at Newt from beneath yellow brows with piercing, mismatched eyes. “Do you enjoy the challenge of taming beasts, or choosing not to? Or are they the only friends you know? Has wizarding society exiled and dismissed you both, Newton?” 

“What?” said Newt, blinking. He rose and followed Percival’s gaze to his pocketwatch. “Exiled…?”

“People fear what they cannot understand,” said Grindelwald, raising his chin and narrowing his eyes. “But not us. We embrace it. And for this, for intellectual curiosity, we were expelled from school, denied the very learning we were promised as children. How did it feel to be banished from your friends and classmates, Newton?”

“You would subjugate Muggles,” said Newt distrustfully. “That’s not intellectual curiosity.”

“Your book might encourage more Grimsditches than Scamanders,” said Grindelwald. “I wonder,” he cast a critical look over Newt then, “why are you in Muggle dress? Why not wear my gift proudly?" 

“Your gift?” echoed Newt.

“My cloak. It is woven with wards to keep its wearer safe. You did not consider it a thoughtless offering, a mere whim? Dear Newton,” Grindelwald shook his head in mock disappointment, and Newt was suddenly reminded of a similar expression, though it had been earnest, on Dumbledore’s face. He wondered if Grindelwald was capable of feeling sincere emotions or if, like a Boggart which modeled itself after the fears of others, he could only mimic them secondhand.

What had happened to Grindelwald’s cloak? It must have been soaked with his blood. Newt had lost consciousness wearing it, had awoken in hospital…Newt remembered the paper-wrapped bundle under his brother’s arm.

“I did warn you about him,” said Grindelwald, stepping forward. Percival pulled Newt behind himself, and Newt had the unpleasant feeling that he should be Occluding. His wand hand brushed over his pocketwatch, and he felt strangely compelled to check the time. Newt recognized the compulsion for some form of mind magic, but deemed it benevolent.

“Since you’re being so obliging, perhaps you will surrender into our custody and spirit yourself away to the nearest prison?” said Percival, sensing an opportunity to redirect the dark wizard’s attention from Newt.

Grindelwald smiled an unpleasant smile, said, “I have done your job for you long enough, Percy. Time you pick up some slack. What’s this about Grimsditch replacing you? I hear he has very curious hobbies, the new Director of Magical Law Enforcement.”

Newt was gazing at his watch when Percival glanced over his shoulder. It showed seconds to midday, or midnight. Percival narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. The angle allowed him to glimpse the glare off the watch, white as folds of fabric, as a bone-white wand with ridges like clusters of elderberries. The same wand Grindelwald was twirling between pale fingers. Percival’s suspicions crystallized into conclusions. The watch struck twelve and against all reason, Percival turned his back to Grindelwald and rounded on Newt, hands on his shoulders, a faint tremor in his extremities. Why had he not seen it sooner?

“It’s been showing you glimpses of the Hallows,” Percival said in an urgent whisper. “That must be why Flamel joined the Order of the Golden Dawn: Willie Chasepierre. His alchemy and her divination and Crowe’s mechanical enchantments… all to search and to seek, to craft an instrument like that watch. Newt, it’s been showing you the Hallows all along. It must have sensed your connection to them and taken it for your greatest desire. Flamel’s worked on enchanted mirrors… the reflective glass functions the same way. You know what you have to do, Newt!”

As Percival finished speaking, he whirled to block Newt, wand raised. Grindelwald was striding toward them, his face set on the watch in Newt’s hand. Newt picked up a stone and unclipped the watch from his chain.

He saw from the corner of his eye the familiar blonde witch materialize where the overlarge raven had landed, a dark-feathered dart floating at the tip of her wand. Percival’s forearm was pushing Newt toward the ground, he was calling up a shield… The dart flew into Percival’s shield the exact moment the rock in Newt’s hand broke the delicate inner workings of Kit’s pocketwatch. Fragments of clockwork went flying, shards of glass and miniscule gears scattering across the pebbled ground. Newt rose and pivoted to steady Percival, who was swaying on his feet.

Newt felt his stomach sink when he saw the dark-feathered dart protruding from the side of Percival’s throat.

“Perce! Love, no!” Newt whispered, panicked. Percival’s dark eyes met his and softened for a moment before they slid closed and he pitched forward bonelessly into Newt’s arms.

A hideous snarl of wrath twisted Grindelwald’s pale face at the sight of the broken watch. With a visible effort, he assumed a calm air, but the simmering rage beneath it edged his voice and his gaze with a new intensity.

“Disappointing,” he said, toeing the gears and broken glass of the smashed pocketwatch. “To have had a _map_ to the very thing I desire, destroyed before my eyes. You drive a cruel bargain, Newton.”

“My lord!” cried Rosier the former-Raven, her heels clacking on the stones as she approached, looking stately as ever. “My aim was true-" 

“Don’t speak now, Vinda,” said Grindelwald, interrupting Vinda without sparing her a glance. “Your short-sighted foolishness nearly cost us, my dear. I am not in the mood to deal with you now,” he tilted his head, and Vinda Rosier was propelled back several meters, wide-eyed and immobilized. Grindelwald had not looked up from the prone form of Percival and from Newt, who was kneeling at his side, tears streaming down his face. Percival would not wake. The dragons shifted on their perches, straining long necks and ruby gazes toward the magizoologist, but Newt had eyes only for Percival.

“He won’t wake,” said Grindelwald softly, take two steps forward and pausing. Newt glanced up at him distrustfully and persisted in his attempts to wake Percival. “ _Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!_ ’”

“What are you on about? What have you done to him?” said Newt, voice already edged with the rasp of weeping. He held up the black-feathered dart he had removed from Percival’s throat. A spiderweb of grayish lines originated in the inflamed side of Percival’s throat, spreading along his jaw and beneath his collar. The Auror was breathing very slowly, utterly unresponsive to Newt’s magic, to Newt’s touch. “Is this…?” Newt asked, his voice becoming firm: “Undo it at once!”

“The Draught of Nepenthe? Well, it can be undone,” Grindelwald mused, raising his brows, “it is possible. For a very powerful wizard such as myself, perhaps. Given the correct motivation. But Newton,” here Grindelwald gave an elegant shrug, and turned on his heel, his coat flaring out behind him, “you’ve hardly been cooperative. I have implored you for a favor time and again. I asked you politely in Paris. And I tried again, through an emissary,” Gellert shot a dark, keen glance at Vinda. “You nearly had my messenger killed! And time and again I was civilized. I was patient,” Grindelwald turned back toward Newt in his pacing, his gait menacing and his voice pitched low. Newt had sunk to his knees beside Percival and was gazing at Grindelwald with indignant ire. “I explained the advantages to your person and to your creatures. I was prepared to be generous. But you destroyed the one bargaining chip you had, little lizard,” an icy, exacting glare met Newt’s red-rimmed eyes. “A map to the artifacts I have been hunting _decades longer than you have been alive_. Destroyed at my very fingertips,” Grindelwald shook his head, gave a mirthless smile. “I am not inclined to do you any favors now, dear boy. In fact,” Grindelwald waved his wand, and Percival’s limp body rose to float like a puppet in the air, “why don’t we make him dance? Maybe twitch a little? _Crucio!_ ”

“No!” Newt cried, springing up to tackle Grindelwald and running headlong into a wandless shield that sent him sprawling. Percival’s body was twitching perfunctorily where it was suspended in the air, eerily silent. His breathing had sped up, and saliva was running from the corners of his mouth.

“No, please! Gellert! Stop! You’ll kill him!” Newt beat at the shield, bloodying his knuckles. His wand gave an alarming creak. “Please! What do you want? Anything!”

Grindelwald dropped the spell carelessly, and Newt dove to catch Percival, who collapsed as though the strings holding him up had been cut. Grindelwald observed Newt struggling to get out from beneath the limp body of the Auror whose fall he had managed to break. Newt cast Cushioning charms beneath Percival and stood, sure to keep himself between the unconscious wizard and Grindelwald.

“Well this _is_ a change of pace,” said Grindelwald slowly, “I’ve seen you beg for the lives of your creatures. Tell me, what would you offer for the life of your lover?”

Newt approached Grindelwald, his face set, freckles stark against pale skin. He was breathing harshly, his eyes flicking between Grindelwald’s boots and his cravat and his eyes and the dragons behind him…

“You will restore Percival to life and health: undo what you’ve done. As long as you do not force me to harm anyone or anything, I agree to your favor.”

Grindelwald said slyly, “How can I trust your word? You’ve lied to Florin.”

“We will make the Unbreakable Vow,” said Newt, without missing a beat. Grindelwald paused, and a delighted smile rounded his lips.

 


	34. Barter & Burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter for you, a little early. And thank you for the feedback, it is generous and appreciated! (and always most welcome)
> 
> so that M rating? it stands for (terrible) Metaphors, maybe, in this chapter <3
> 
> Illustrations by the amazing **[Juliet's Art Box,](http://questionartbox.tumblr.com/)**  whom I commissioned a few weeks ago. Thank you, QuestionArtBox!!

**Chapter 34:** Barter & Burn

 

“Why Newton, you are refreshingly straightforward,” said Grindelwald airily. “Vinda! I have a use for you,” he snapped his fingers, and Vinda collapsed in a heap, freed from whatever enchantment had restricted her movement. She gasped for breath and gathered herself up from the ground, attempting to regain her dignity as she approached. “Her presence is a formality only,” Grindelwald assured Newt, “don’t worry. You and I will speak the vow.”

Vinda stood off to the side. Percival lay as though sleeping beneath the shimmering dome of Newt’s most rapid ward-casting yet. Grindelwald demanded Newt’s wand, and Newt flinched.

“Must we go through the tedium of threats, a-gain?” sighed Grindelwald. Newt held out his wand, handle forward, and Grindelwald pocketed it along with his own. “Vinda? Stand here. Why are you never where you need to be? You are our Bonder. Can you manage that?” disdain and condescension dripped from Grindelwald’s voice when he spoke to Vinda. He was evidently still displeased with her.

There was a pause, and Newt’s aches caught up with him, suddenly, leaving him breathless. His fright for Percival remained, but was momentarily eclipsed by the pain in his arm from Marvolo’s curse, a lingering, powerful magic bred of malicious intent. His entire body ached from the discharge of the Killing curse he had so narrowly avoided. Grindelwald had saved him, he now realized, and he did not know how to feel about this information. His knuckles were bruised and bleeding from his encounter with Grindelwald’s shield, his Occlumency was a shambles, and Percival was lying there in a shimmering, translucent, warded enclosure like a glass coffin. Newt recalled with startling clarity their discussion of fairy stories, earlier that morning. It seemed like a lifetime and not mere hours ago.

They had retrieved the dragon eggs, Newt reflected, but at what cost?

Grindelwald stepped forward, and the morning sun shone off his white hair. He met Newt’s gaze and made a gesture of invitation. There was some restraint involved, Newt supposed, in abstaining from cheeriness on the dark wizard’s part. Vinda stood beside him, glaring impatiently at Newt, who stepped up in spite of an overwhelming instinct to Disapparate with Percival in tow. He hated not having a wand just then, though objectively it made little difference. Percival was all but a hostage. Perhaps Dumbledore might help him, or Kit or Flamel, but if he did not come to some accord with Gellert, Newt doubted he would survive this meeting. Part of him was relieved that he would find out, at last, what it was that Gellert wanted of him. A rare creature? He did not know how he would live with himself, if so…

Newt grasped the proffered hand, grip firm but not punishing. Gellert’s hand was warm and calloused, too, though not as calloused as Newt’s. There was a scar running the length of the back of it, disappearing beneath his sleeve.

“A parting gift from an old friend,” said Gellert softly, seeing Newt’s gaze. Newt looked up, startled. The ice-blue eye was surveying him almost tenderly, the jet-black eye was inscrutable as ever. Ignotus had called Grindelwald The Dark Eye, Newt recalled.

“Professor Dumbledore,” Newt whispered, thinking of Delphiniums before he could stop himself. The grip on his hand tightened like a vice, and Grindelwald’s face did not change, but a controlled, arctic fury burned in his blue eye, now.

“Go on, Vinda,” he said, voice low. Newt realized he had overstepped, that Grindelwald had allowed him to overstep, had lulled him with his actions and his voice.

Vinda brought down her wand. Tongues of yellow flame twined about their joined hands like an ornate, glowing rope. The magical strands braided themselves about their clasped fingers up to the wrist, hot and irrevocable. Hot fear seized Newt, that he had miscalculated, that this would be a grave mistake. But then his own thoughts comforted him. A mistake for Graves was no mistake. He remembered Ignotus’ words about his greatest strength and weakness, and felt it to be his loyalty, now tying him quite literally to the darkest wizard of the age. He forced his gaze up to meet Grindelwald’s. The dark wizard was surveying him, and Newt called upon his Occlumency. Gellert smiled a knowing smile.

“Do you, Newton Artemis Fido Scamander,” said Gellert, savoring Newt’s full name in something like trochaic pentameter, like a parody of a marriage vow, “give your word to fulfill three favors for me?”

“I will not give you a carte blanche,” said Newt firmly. “I will not agree to hurt or kill anyone or anything,” he winced as the Vow burned the back of his hand, dissatisfied with the qualification. “I will not give you anything on Credence. But I will perform one favor for you.”

Grindelwald yanked him by his vow-bound right arm, and Newt nearly pitched over. Instead, Gellert spun him in a smooth, dance-like motion, and Newt found himself pressed against the other wizard, his spellbound arm pinned behind his back and between their bodies. A wandtip grazed the side of his throat, forcing him to tilt his head. Grindelwald was ambidextrous, Newt thought absently, heartbeat speeding. Impossibly worse, Newt felt hot breath against the shell of his left ear, a warm, wet tongue, the tug of teeth. His head spun with the sudden proximity. Grindelwald’s familiar smell washed over him, and Newt felt ill with the intimacy of it. His magic registered the feel and scent of pears, of bourbon and ozone.

  
“Times have changed, sweetness,” Grindelwald said into his left ear. “Then, it was one favor. Now, it is three.”

Newt grew aware of Pickett, pulling at the Elder wand at his throat, but he could do nothing as Grindelwald flicked the Bowtruckle like an errant twig from Newt’s shoulder. Newt gasped, tugging at the arms that caged him, but Grindelwald only shushed him, wand pressing deeper into Newt’s throat. In his peripheral vision, Newt could see Vinda Rosier capture Pickett in a Stasis charm.

“Please don’t hurt him!” Newt managed, terrified for Pickett and Percival and desperate to be free, to breathe air untainted by that warm breath. The Vow was burning both their hands now, skin beginning to blister. Grindelwald seemed in no rush to conclude the ritual, and Newt wondered if he enjoyed the pain, and then, worse, if he himself enjoyed being restrained. He had loved the feel of Percival’s hands on him, the security and the paradoxical freedom of surrendering control of his body to someone he trusted. The thrill of it was worse, with Grindelwald, who was unpredictable, who might murder him as soon as lick his ear as he was doing, now. Newt shuddered, self-loathing and humiliation coiling like twin Occamies in his stomach, along with a sliver of desire. He did not understand it, but he could deny it no longer. Grindelwald huffed out a soft chuckle, reverberations of breath and sound tickling Newt’s ear.

“It all depends on you, pet. As a gesture of goodwill, I will forgive your impertinence. Three favors, as we have agreed. And one small one, now, on your part. Open up,” he whispered.

Newt was puzzled when the pressure on his throat eased. Then Grindelwald was tracing his mouth with the tip of the Elder wand, shushing him like the soft whistling of a sinister songbird in his left ear. Newt clamped his mouth shut, and Vinda produced a fireball from her wand, floating toward Pickett… Newt’s jaw went slack, tears in his eyes, Elder wand in his mouth. Grindelwald was laughing in his ear, saying filthy, vulgar, and occasionally sweet things. Newt’s lips worked around the ridges of the wand and he tried not to gag, not to think of how many had been killed by the instrument pressing on the back of his throat, now, sliding in and out of his mouth with wet sounds. It felt more invasive than it was. The wood was smooth, clacking against his teeth and forcing down his tongue, scraping the roof and sides of his mouth. It dragged a strange, sweet coating and the smell of lilacs over his tongue and down his throat, viscous, fragrant and cloying. The sweetness invaded his senses until he was choking on it.

Someone was laughing and biting his ear. Newt felt like he was floating somewhere above his body, nauseous and distant, worrying over the frozen Pickett in the bubble of the Stasis Charm, over Percival sleeping serene on a stretch of grass. Newt grew less concerned about the man in the grey coat (was that him, really, pinned so uselessly?) held by the man in the black coat, wand shoved in his mouth, their hands tied by golden tongues of flame. He felt himself swallow, felt his body heave and force down whatever sticky-sweet substance Grindelwald had magicked down his throat. He was trembling and Grindelwald was murmuring comfort in his ear, tonguing the shell of it, rocking his body gently to and fro. Newt lost time.

Grindelwald’s wand glistened with saliva when he finally deemed the humiliation complete. Vinda looked bored, bouncing Pickett in his Stasis bubble, and Newt wanted to vomit. He wondered if the flesh had been burned clean from his right hand, but then he was spun round again, and Grindelwald was repeating the vow, same as before, and Vinda was bringing her wand down.

“Wait!” cried Newt hoarsely, coughing, “You will restore Percival to himself, healthy in every way? You will not hurt him or any living beast or being in my care—nor force me nor anyone else to hurt them! And…and you will not, directly or indirectly, cause harm to Percival Graves or Credence Barebone ever again.”

Their hands were smoking, the smell of burnt flesh sickening in the air. Newt held Grindelwald’s gaze. Despite the heated flush on his face and neck, the hot tears on his eyelashes, Newt’s gaze was resolute. After a short pause, Grindelwald threw back his head and laughed. He was pale save for a dusting of splotchy red high on his cheeks. Their shared pain mounted with every moment.

“Oh, Newton,” Grindelwald said breathlessly, eyes gleaming, “You should see yourself, now. You _do_ drive a cruel bargain. Very well, I will not purposefully harm Percy or Credence.” 

“You will protect Percival,” Newt pushed, and Grindelwald’s face finally registered the pain of their burning hands. It was a subtle tension of the lines about his mouth. Newt pressed his fingernails into Grindelwald’s hand, back straight and gaze unrelenting, green eyes painfully bright and reflecting the yellow-orange flames of the vow. Tears were running down his cheeks again, mingling with the strings of saliva on his chin from the Elder wand. Newt snapped, “Gellert! Say it!”

Grindelwald pulled and Newt stumbled and resisted the attempt to twirl him around again. 

“The war will come,” Grindelwald whispered, eyes narrowed in a fierce glare. "And he will fall." 

“If you want your favors, you will protect Percival,” Newt gasped, the pain of the vow growing unbearable. “An incomplete vow is an unfulfilled vow. We both die. Is that how your Greater Good will come about?”

Grindelwald seemed to have realized this, too, because he said, “I will avoid Percival Graves, but your favors will be no lighter for your obstinacy.”

“Protect him,” Newt all but moaned. Vinda looked panicked, and Newt and Grindelwald were sweating with the pain, clasped hands pulsing fit to fall off.

“Ich verspreche dir!” snarled Gellert after a pause, baring his teeth, “I will protect your precious Percy when I can, in return for your service! _VINDA!_ ”

The hideous screech had Vinda completing the vow. The tongues of flame vanished, leaving behind a vivid red-black netting of blistered burns and charred flesh across their right hands. Newt sprang back, bringing his hand to his chest. Grindelwald let go of Newt’s hand and surveyed his own, admiring the cauterized spiral grooves of burnt flesh.

“My Bowtruckle and my wand,” gasped Newt, and Vinda tossed Pickett carelessly at him. Newt caught him left-handed and tucked him, sleeping in the Stasis charm, into an inner pocket. Grindelwald was biting his lip, giving Newt a chill, appraising look. His fiery rage had subsided with the pain, though sweat beaded his temples. Newt’s hand throbbed with a deep, dull ache that would only increase as his adrenaline waned, as his heart ceased to beat so rapidly in his ears.

“A trinket,” Grindelwald said after gesturing Vinda with a flick of his wrist to be off. He twirled Newt’s wand, the silvery mother-of-pearl of its handle catching the morning sunlight. “Such a delicate trinket, yet it’s seen its share of battles. For collateral,” he pocketed Newt’s wand and offered Newt a white envelope in its stead. His dreamy tone changed, then, to one of practiced command. “Await further instructions. Your first favor involves burglary, something I understand you’re proficient at.”

Grindelwald raised his charred hand to Newt’s face, running his thumb over his cheek, along his bottom lip like a lover might. Newt valiantly fought the urge to flinch. Grindelwald smiled the moment he Disapparated, his touch lingering on and in Newt’s mouth. The loud sound startled the dragons.

Newt sunk to his haunches and proceeded to lose his breakfast and then to dry heave until he had burst several blood vessels in his throat, until bits of blood came up with bile. The trembling and sweating took him, then, and when he was able to move again, the morning sun had advanced in the sky. There was a dragon over him, a wing extended to drape around him as though Wasya wished to hug him. The other dragons had retrieved the eggs he had set down, had accepted them back in their nests. The Stasis charms would dissolve in the dragonfire. Poachers lay helpless and bound across the valley like worms after a heavy rain. Newt ignored them and looked at his disfigured hand, and then raised his eyes to where Percival lay.

He rose and staggered over, boots crunching over the glass remains of the pocketwatch. Disregarding the compulsion to gather them, to attempt to reassemble the timepiece, Newt pressed on. He reached into his own wards and took Percival by the arm with one hand, then another. Wandless, silent and pale, he Disapparated with Percival in tow.

 

Yavorsky was sitting at the table, alive, well, and looking though a jeweler’s glass at silvery-grey Ukrainian Ironbelly shield scales. He had collected nearly a dozen of them from the poachers’ broomsticks. He stood when Newt arrived, then sat down again.

“You know why I leave,” he said, not looking at Newt. “I have family. Cannot be hero like before, now. What happen to him?”

Newt said nothing. He half-dragged, half-carried Percival to the room they had slept in (had made love in) and lay him carefully on the bed. He sat down next to him, face bereft of emotion. His right hand ached and stung horribly. He focused on it: the pain distracted Newt from his worry. He felt he had earned the pain, had inflicted its equal on Gellert.

Newt listened to Percival’s slow, steady breathing. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw green light and the feathered dart in Percival’s throat. So Newt kept his eyes open, wide and dry and unseeing, bright green and vacant from weeping. Newt knelt next to Percival and buried his face in his arm, his neck and chest.

He slipped the ebony wand from Percival’s pocket. It felt smooth and polished, like its master. The wand hesitated to channel his magic at first, but after several tries, Newt brought Pickett out of the Stasis spell. Pickett burrowed deeper into Newt’s pocket to where the magizoologist’s heartbeat resounded, rapid and slightly irregular, as he descended into the case.

When the Graphorns nosed at his bloodied sleeve, Newt decided it would not do to spook the beasts with fresh blood. He must not be thinking clearly. Newt stepped from his clothes and ran the hottest bath he could stand. Dirt and blood dissolved from his skin when he dragged himself into the old clawfoot tub in the expanded washroom off his study-cum-shed. He kept his pulsing hand out in the steam. It looked infected already, red and swollen and blooming pustules of charred flesh and pus. He looked over his freckled body, at the bruises beginning to form from Gnarlak’s Killing curse and Gellert’s last-minute deflection. There were faint fingermarks on his hip, from before. 

Newt came back to himself thanks to the pain in his burnt hand. The water was significantly cooler. His breathing was uneven, his hands trembled, but the panic was abating and his heart rate was falling. He could not pause now, could not indulge in reflection or feeling. Percival’s fate depended on him. He rose, dripping, dried himself on a coarse towel and dug out his second pair of clothes. His burnt right hand refused to go through its sleeve until he smothered the burns in an ointment and used his teeth to tighten the bandage, naked save for the towel. Finally he dressed, and used Percival’s wand to spell his coat free of blood. The rip on the upper right sleeve refused to mend. Casting with Percival’s wand felt a little like breathing through a straw.

Newt dragged himself from habitat to habitat. He was very aware of the weighty white envelope in the pocket of his coat as he fed his beasts. He proceeded methodically, silently—it was too early for their dinner, but Newt needed to focus on something outside of himself. Dougal stuck close to his side, tugging on his empty pocketwatch chain and patting his uninjured hand.

“I broke it, Dougal,” Newt explained once again. Dougal’s amber eyes peered in Newt’s, and Newt shook his head. “I’m not going back for it. You’re as bad as Niffler. Where is Horace, anyway?”

The Niffler was in his nest, for once, though he offered Newt a silver Sickle when he saw the watch was missing. Newt took it and patted the troublemaker on the head. He visited the Occamies, the Runespoor and then the Moonclaves, whose tender eyes struck Newt as profoundly melancholy today. It was on the Mooncalf mountainside where Newt took out the envelope and read the short missive by moonlight. _Dear Newton,_ it said _, betake yourself to New York with celerity, and await the Raven’s word in the place where the Obscurus dwelled. Bring the case._ Grindelwald had written in flowery cursive and signed it in German, with the fragment of another poem Newt didn’t read, with ornate niceties that Newt didn’t process.

“ _Incendio,_ ” said Newt, to no avail. “ _Incendio!_ Incendio!”

The note curled to ash in yellow flames.

With the aid of Percival’s wand, Newt transferred its master into the case and magicked new wards about the Cerberus’ habitat. Fido sniffed curiously at the prone human lying atop Newt’s cot in the midst of her dwelling, an orange grove beside the Kelpie pond, stretches of grassy meadow and rocky hillside adjacent. Her tail wagged when Newt approached.

“Not a treat, darling,” Newt whispered. “Please guard him, Eleusia? There’s a good girl.”

The name had slipped unbidden from his lips, and he knew it the correct one to replace his less-suited, shared middle name. Eleusia had grown all but tame in their short travels from Rumania. Newt still wanted to have a word with Florin about her treatment of the Cerberus. Eleusia’s ribs had stuck out, her noses had been pale pink instead of healthy black, and one of her heads was going blind more quickly than the others, in the darkness. He was working to remedy her eyes still, but the dimmed sunlight of her habitat had done wonders for her mood, as had a steady diet. She sniffed sadly at his bandaged hand, as if empathizing with his pain and regretting, too, that he would not play the flute for her until the injury healed. He would release her in the Cyclades. Somewhere among almond groves and mulberry bushes and orange trees, where Eleusia would jump into the air after gulls and pine martens and forage for rodents like a Siberian wolf. But not until her eyesight recovered. For now she would guard the sleeping Percival Graves.

He had spelled windchimes and nightingales into the birch grove in the midst of the small meadow. Eleusia raised her nose and lidded all six eyes when an enchanted breeze tinkled the chimes into song. Newt closed his eyes and listened, but the sounds did not soothe him as before.

He climbed back out of his case and took it into Yavorsky’s main room. He pocketed several shield scales from the table where Yavorsky was examining them. The Swooping Evil which now occupied his pocket tried to chew on them and Newt _tsked_ at her.

“The eggs have been restored,” he said to Yavorsky, staring at his fireplace. “Please renew the wards on the valley? And call the authorities. The poachers are trussed up but I’m not sure the dragons will show them much mercy." 

His voice did not sound like his voice. Yavorsky looked up and nodded. “I will send word by the usual channels if anything comes up,” he said solemnly.

Newt took a handful of Floo powder from the clay pot labeled “Tea” on Yavorsky’s mantel and poured it into a vial. He took another handful and tossed it into the fireplace, said “Roma’s pub, Soğukçeşme Street, Istanbul.”

He stepped into the green flames and was gone.

Yavorsky swore a colorful streak in Ukrainian and flushed unpleasantly, huffing a sigh. He grabbed a handful of sunflower seeds and let them fall on the table in a soft, clicking waterfall of black shells. The silvery shield scales glinted from beneath a covering of sunflower seeds like a collar of ornamental beads. Yavorsky squinted at them, his brows rising asymmetrically, stretching the scars on the side of his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A closer look at QuestionArtBox's fantastic images can be found **[here](https://image.ibb.co/neCrtS/mmatch_1.png)**  and **[here](https://image.ibb.co/jVeh07/mmatch_2.png)**.
> 
> It's my headcanon that Gellert would test the bonds (literally I s'pose) of the Unbreakable Vow, that this ancient sort of magic is somewhat primal and volatile. Yavorsky is a little less likeable here, perhaps? He insisted on surviving, the sneak, the spry bastard.
> 
> We have a Cerberus guarding a sleeping Graves. I'm gonna go on an allegory spree someone stop me whut <3


	35. Where the Obscurial Dwelled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> might be a delay posting next few chapters, as I haven't actually written very much lately. I grow reluctant as we near the ending. But I will work on that! 
> 
> thank you always, for the feedback. it's nourishing and kind and generous and very much appreciated. It also really helps me get off my lazy butt (figuratively) and update.
> 
> be well! <3

**Chapter 35:** Where the Obscurial Dwelled

 

Credence had learned more than he thought possible from Professor Dumbledore. He had always thought Newt a powerful wizard, but he was coming to realize that Newt was creative and resourceful, but not magically powerful. Not like Professor Dumbledore was. It raised the hairs on the back of Credence’s neck, to watch Dumbledore and Kit demonstrate wizarding duels out here on the abandoned grounds of a circus outside Paris. The magic set his teeth on edge, threatened the violent buzzing in his ears, and thrilled his blood.

The old lady and the roguish wizard were grinning ear-to-ear, flicking their wands at each other, a competitive tension palpable between them. A swarm of luminescent moths became a whirlwind of colorful leaves became a splash of wine that Dumbledore froze into a burgundy sculpture. Kit looked impressed despite herself. 

“Advanced duelists may resort to Transfiguration,” Dumbledore was saying in what Credence thought of as his teaching voice. “To catch their opponent off-guard, to redirect their own magic against them. It is not regularly practiced on the streets, as it were, because it requires a certain finesse.”

He and Kit bowed to each other. Sweat beaded the wizard’s forehead, and Kit was flushed, grey eyes shining behind her spectacles.

Tina, Queenie and Jacob had left for the States that morning. Credence remained in Paris with Kit and Willie, though he was regretting this. He had books, and more free time than he knew what to do with, and a growing feeling that something was not right. Newt’s latest letter had seemed cheery, but Credence detected an undercurrent of unease. He was inclined to trust his instincts. He awoke at night feeling diffuse, sometimes, like the edges of his body were near dissolving, his limbs tingling, his breathing strained and fast.

He was on the cusp of a realization when he woke suddenly, dream forgotten, body on the edge of the corporeal, mind beginning to remember the difference between himself as boy and himself as dark cloud. It escaped Credence every time, whatever it was. He lost sleep over it. The adults around him now were very powerful and very detached, very interested in abstractions that involved Learning and Magic. So Credence learned magic, and Credence tried not to dissolve into primordial magical chaos. Sometimes it felt like he was stifling his most natural urge. He had come upon Kit whispering,  _Oh that this too, too solid flesh would melt_ and he understood the feeling, but she had been reciting lines and Credence felt this  _itch_ beneath his skin, now, almost constantly...

During the day, Credence learned to defend himself. Newt had taught Credence how to blend into an environment, to Disillusion himself and wait for danger to pass, to hide in unexpected places and to run (memorably) in jagged zigzags to avoid Hinkypunk projectiles. But Credence knew how to do these things already, and he wanted to be able to defend himself and his friends if he ever crossed paths with a dark wizard again. He would not be a pawn or a bystander to innocent suffering. He had murdered people, and there was no going back from that. Newt had agreed, looking pensive, that there was no going back from that. But he had said that it lightened the burden, to protect others. Credence had not believed him at first.

Newt had looked at him with clear eyes, telling Credence to accept what had happened. Not that it was his fault: Newt was insistent that the Obscurial and not Credence had killed Senator Shaw. But he urged Credence to accept that it had happened, that it was in the past. That his course lay forward, in preventing further deaths where possible. Credence had felt the fierceness then, that Newt usually kept hidden, and also a profound melancholy.

“We have to embrace sorrow to let it go, sometimes,” Newt had said. “Imagine wading through a river. You get wet, you drag yourself against the current, and it takes all of your strength just to keep your feet beneath you. You need to embrace the current, use it to cross the river. You make it to the other side, and the sun will dry you. And you shall keep moving, and you will take that sorrow as a blessing with you, to inform your journey, to give you strength of conviction.”

He had seemed distant, and sad. Credence didn’t like this philosophy. Sometimes it felt like the Obscurial was a dark, deep part of his inner self, the current of his soul and feeling, and that it would sweep him away in a tumult of desolation, leaving only ruins in his wake. It was too powerful a current to control, and sometimes he wanted to drown in it. It was not crossing a river but striving to find a path upriver against an impossible current, fighting a losing battle. Perhaps Newt had the privilege to step out of the river, but what of those who had to follow it to the source, Credence thought bitterly.

“What did you think?” said Kit, tucking her wand away. Credence came back to himself to find both the elderly scholar and the middle-aged Professor surveying him with varying degrees of curiosity. He averted his gaze.

“I could feel the strength of it. Will I be able to do that?”

“Much flash and little substance,” said Dumbledore, hiding a grin behind his beard at Kit’s scowl. “But I would be more than happy to tutor you, if your temporary guardian allows it?”

Kit narrowed her eyes but Dumbledore met her gaze with a friendly twinkle. Too friendly. Kit sighed.

“Suit yourself, Credence,” she said, “You’re going to be of age soon. Might as well begin to make your own decisions.”

Credence straightened, but Kit wasn’t done.

“Keep in mind that not everyone is like Newt,” she said. 

“Newt is good, but he doesn’t do the sorts of magic you just showed me,” said Credence, looking between Dumbledore and Kit. 

“He doesn’t expect anything in return,” said Kit softly. Dumbledore’s eyes flashed to her and back to Credence swiftly.

“The joy of teaching is sufficient reward in itself,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Unless you are ascribing sinister motives to my person?”

“I’m not ascribing anything,” said Kit coolly. “I am merely wondering at your sudden interest.”

“Merlin preserve me from turning into a suspicious old bookworm if I live to one hundred and fifty,” Dumbledore whispered to Credence, after Kit had left, instructing Dumbledore to drop Credence off with her after their lesson.

“Is she really that old?” said Credence. 

“Nicolas Flamel, from lunch last week? He’s over three hundred,” said Dumbledore, Summoning his coat wandlessly to hang suspended as he rose and slid his arms into the sleeves.

“He did that too, the other wizard,” said Credence, looking serious. “Mr. Graves. No, the one pretending to be Mr. Graves. He used magic without a wand.”

“It is a skill some powerful wizards possess,” said Dumbledore gently. “It cannot be taught but it might be cultivated. Come, I want to show you a special place. You’ve never been to an exclusively wizarding settlement before, have you, my boy? You’re going to enjoy Hogsmeade, I think.”

  

Credence did enjoy Hogsmeade. Between the prank shop, the post office, the candy shop and a stationary shop, the hours passed quickly. Everything seemed a little different, rendered a little wacky by magic. Self-sealing envelopes, red Howler letters ready to screech at a recipient of your choice, candy in flavors like blood and butterfly wing, quills that took dictation, or squirted ink whenever the user tried to write the letter _a_. Everyone seemed to know Professor Dumbledore and to take Credence for one of his students. Credence was secretly pleased when Dumbledore didn’t deny this assumption. After Dumbledore and Credence had spent an inordinate amount of time perusing dusty books, they stopped in at a local pub. Credence had never had a drink before. Newt did not seem to drink or smoke. Dumbledore grinned when Credence mentioned this to him.

“Newt never was very interested in the niceties of civilization. Always running off into the Forbidden Forest to look for Centaurs,” Dumbledore waved over the waiter and smiled. “A piece of steak-and-kidney pie for me and…hmm, fish and chips for the lad. And make it two Butterbeers, please, Donnie,” he said. “Where was I? Ah, yes, Newt… well he was a curious student. Not the sort to follow rules, certainly. Would have made a fine Gryffindor, I think… I asked my second-years to transfigure Bowtruckles into teacups and he refused, point blank. I had him scrubbing cauldrons in detention for a week before he confessed that he didn’t want to hurt his Bowtruckle.”

“Oh,” said Credence, gazing about at the patrons of the pub. There was a face in the fireplace, he noticed, ordering kegs of Butterbeer for a party.

“Tell me, Credence,” said Dumbledore, leaning forward. “I read about what happened in New York. I wanted to congratulate you on managing to cure your Obscurial. You are the first person to have ever survived an Obscurial over the age of ten in the last century, at least. It’s a remarkable achievement.”

“Oh,” said Credence, again, and a frown fell across his features.

The waiter levitated the Butterbeers to their table and gave Dumbledore a nod from across the room. Dumbledore brought the foamy drink to his lips and took a long, steaming sip. He sighed in pleasure, and Credence tentatively sipped his own Butterbeer. It warmed him from the inside. The north of Scotland was much colder than Paris.

“If the Americans had not tried to kill you and you weren’t in hiding, you would be famous, my boy,” said Dumbledore. “Renowned for your magical skill. To quell your own Obscurial? It’s an unprecedented feat of magic. You should be very proud, Credence.”

Credence set down his Butterbeer, looking unhappy.

“Would you prefer a pumpkin juice?” said Dumbledore mildly. 

“It’s just,” Credence glared at the tablecloth and the round stains from what seemed thousands of mugs and goblet-bases.

“Credence?” Dumbledore prompted carefully.

“I don’t, I haven’t cured the Obscurial,” Credence said suddenly. “I can barely control it sometimes. Sometimes, I feel as though everyone around me is in danger…” his eyes were downcast. “That I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”

“Never say that, my boy,” said Dumbledore, furrowing his brows, blue eyes twinkling at Credence with understanding and with interest. He put a hand on the table, near Credence. “You do not give yourself enough credit.”

“It’s true,” said Credence, gazing darkly at his Butterbeer, now. “Newt calmed me down. He helps me with the, the…”

“The emotion?” Dumbledore said gently.

Credence raised suspicious eyes to Dumbledore’s guileless twinkling blue ones.

“Yes,” Credence sighed. “How can you know?” 

“I can guess,” said Dumbledore, careful to maintain his mild tone and manner. “I am familiar with how an Obscurus forms. I know that you were made to feel that your magic was not a part of you, that it was an aberration, indeed a literal damnation, if some were to be believed,” Dumbledore seemed like he was trying not to smile, not to grimace. “Poppycock, of course. Your magic is as natural as my beard, my boy,” Dumbledore did smile, this time, a comforting softness settling temporarily on his animated and stern face. “And a rather more integral part of you. But I am curious,” Dumbledore peered into Credence’s eyes again, “how you managed to subdue the Obscurial? You say you cannot be cured?”

“Newt said it’s a terminal condition,” Credence said, “he said it can be treated but not cured. He asked me if I was prepared to work on it my whole life, on embracing magic as a part of me, on letting negative emotions wash over me without controlling me. He told me aggression is natural, that I just have to channel it another way…”

“Tell me more about what he said,” said Dumbledore, taking a sip of Butterbeer, and placing his hand onto Credence’s shoulder. Credence seemed to lean into the touch. “How did you survive the curses those Americans threw at you? It must have been very difficult. Everyone thought you were dead.”

“I did too,” said Credence, his shoulders drooping. “I still do, sometimes.”

The waiter brought their food out, then. Dumbledore shifted and schooled his features back to patience.

“I suppose a small part of me knew enough to protect itself, to run and to find a place to recuperate,” said Credence slowly, picking at his fish with his fork. “I’m not sure how I survived, but I know that Newt and Tina gave me hope that Mr. Graves… no, that Grindelwald had nearly destroyed. My…Mary Lou hit me. And then he did, too. But Tina wanted to protect me. I believed her, then. And Newt. They have kind eyes. And I wanted magic. I wanted to prove Ma wrong." 

“The proximity of a potential family, these things made you hold on?” said Dumbledore, looking at Credence intently, his hand tightening on his shoulder. “An Obscurus might survive a killing blow? What if you had been attacked as a boy and not as an Obscurial?”

Credence felt suddenly uncomfortable, like he and Dumbledore were speaking about different things. He shrugged the hand from his shoulder. There was a flash of insight, that the fake Graves had promised to teach him magic and wanted to know about Obscurials, too.

Credence tried not to gag as he took several bites of his fish, withdrew a curved little bone from his mouth, and set upon his chips. Dumbledore was opening his mouth to ask another question when a loud knocking on the window interrupted their stilted conversation. The other patrons, a lonely warlock and three hags playing cards at the far table, ignored the knocking. The waiter looked up from pouring measures of firewhiskey behind the bar. He waved his wand to allow a small, blue-speckled bird to fly into the pub and circle the wood-beam ceiling. The bird swooped down to nearly knock over Credence’s Butterbeer. It poked its orange beak into Dumbledore’s coat pocket and fetched an owl treat, which it tossed into the air, caught and devoured. It did all this without making a sound. Next, it stuck out its foot, to which was tied a scrap of parchment.

“That’s our Jobberknoll!” said Credence, knocking over the remains of his Butterbeer with his elbow. “That’s Newt’s writing! But what does that mean?”

Dumbledore frowned at the missive. There were three words jotted in a shaky hand. _Nepenthe. Awaken. Please._

The Jobberknoll took a chip from Credence’s plate and fluttered to sit on his shoulder, struggling to keep its balance whilst holding the overlarge piece of potato in its beak.

* * *

Newt stared up at what used to be the New Salemer’s church and orphanage. The orphanage dormitory had been rebuilt to resemble a Victorian Mansion. Despite the cloudy light of the November day, the building seemed cast in perpetual shadow. Newt alighted the porch steps and raised his fist to knock when he paused, and brought his ear to the door. He could hear children inside.

“There you are,” said a woman’s voice. Newt looked up to see Vinda Rosier’s head and torso in the open third-storey window. She looked different, and it took Newt a moment to recognize her. Instead of their usual blond, her hair, eyebrows and eyelashes were dark as pitch. Her dark hair was gathered in a high bun, and the severity somehow suited her better than the feigned sweetness. She no longer appeared as young and vain—age had drawn faint but cruel lines around her mouth and eyes. She said, “What are you waiting for? Come upstairs, then!”

Newt swallowed and opened the door, keeping his case close. His knuckles had scabbed over, and there were faint pink cuts on his face, and yellowing bruises on his ribs and torso, down his left hip and thigh. The lower half of his face was covered in blond stubble, and his eyes were tired and sunken. He had been travelling for days, surviving largely on tea, Pepper-Up and baths of Murtlap Essence—which involved baths with his Murtlap, Midge. His sleep had been troubled.

The children’s voices were louder, through the door. It seemed the orphanage had new residents, and a new caretaker. Newt glimpsed a sober old nun who suddenly cracked a bright smile, and gave a little girl a threaded needle and an embroidery hoop.

“Can I help you, young man?” called the nun. Newt licked his lips and gestured that he was going upstairs, and the nun nodded and returned her attention to the children.

A door opened upstairs and Newt climbed the wooden staircase, limping slightly. His Swooping Evil fluttered in his sleeve.

“Not yet,” he whispered, “I’ll let you know.”  
  
“Finally,” said Vinda, letting Newt pass and locking the door behind him. He found himself in a long room, dark save a few candle stubs on the desk and a fire burning low in a large fireplace. A windowsill held books, cushions, and the fine drape of heavy curtains which blocked the grey daylight.

He was reminded of Florin’s abode. Vinda Rosier was pacing. Her face bore the marks of habitual insomnia. For once, she was not trying to be strikingly beautiful, and this allowed her natural, mild beauty to become apparent.

“You’re not looking well at all. Sit,” said Vinda, pointing impatiently at the wide windowsill. Newt took his case into both hands and tilted his head, standing in front of the door. He straightened his shoulders and regarded Vinda with grim weariness. She wore an expression of displeasure and an elegant dark blouse and skirt, stiletto boots and a black leather wand holster. Newt had never been so aware of others’ wands as when he lacked his own. Still he did not budge.

"You're a Metamorphmagus," he said, blinking. "That's how you were following us. It wasn't a Notice-Me-Not charm. You've been changing your appearance incrementally, just enough to throw us off your trail..."

"Took you long enough to catch on," Vinda said, unimpressed. "Pure blood has its advantages, wouldn't you know? Though you insist on befriending vermin." 

Newt ignored the jibe and looked around the room. There was a jar on the mantelpiece of a tall fireplace. This was evidently a rendezvous point between more permanent headquarters. Newt hated the idea of Grindelwald's fanatics being so near children--again. 

"I said sit, Scamander. Look, I don’t know why everyone admires you so much. But frankly, I don’t like you.”

“Sorry?” said Newt, meeting Vinda's gaze in his surprise. “Everyone what?”

“You heard me. You’ve finally met a person you can’t charm. Now that Graves fellow had some sense before he tangled with you. But you’re full of it! Gallivanting around, upending everyone’s plans. My lord Grindelwald goes about mythologizing your exploits. Do you know, you’ve been nothing but a chaotic variable in my plans since you seduced my master?”

“What?” said Newt, astonishment rounding his vowels. “You’re mad. No wonder you serve Gellert.”

“And now I’m to help you? You?” she made a sound not unlike Nancy’s roar. “But a life debt’s a life debt. Listen up, Scamander.”

Newt took a seat on the windowsill, keeping his body between Vinda and his case, and listened to what he thought was a very deluded witch.

“Here,” said Vinda, offering Newt a silver necklace. When he did not take it, she tossed it at him and Newt reflexively caught the triangular silver pendant. “An emergency Portkey that’ll take you to my master if you say his name thrice.”

“Gellert never struck me as the rescuing type, and yet,” said Newt, the side of his mouth quirking. He pocketed the trinket.

“My master is a gentleman revolutionary. Why he’s bothering with the likes of you…riffraff of the wizarding world…though I suppose someone has to deal with the lower orders, and you are an expert in your field,” Vinda shook her head. “Still, I would have preferred your brother. At least he’s had sympathy for the cause. Your only concern is with Flobberworms.”

“Flobberworms are fascinating, I'll have you know,” Newt lied brightly. Grindelwald had spoken of Theseus along these lines, too.

“How do you think he pulled off that astounding victory at the Somme? You believe he thought up that strategy himself, Scamander? My master told him his plans and your brother played right into his hands. He finished off the General and my master led the counteroffensive. The Allies won the battle, but my master was put into a position of power—all thanks to your brother, who was hailed as a hero. A mutually beneficial arrangement, it was, all thanks to my master’s brilliance.”

“Theseus is a hero,” Newt said again, though the words tasted bitter on his tongue. “I don’t believe you.”

“Well, I wasn’t there,” said Vinda, shrugging. “But Krall was, and Burke and Dolohov’s lieutenants. But I don’t really care what you believe. I told you the truth. And I’ll tell you one more thing: my master won’t kill you, but he won’t let you go, either.”

“You want me gone,” said Newt, shifting the grip on his case. “Just as much as I want to get away. Help me wake Percival, then,” he said, raising his eyes to Vinda’s. “Help me fulfill three favors and I will disappear. Your debt will be paid. Be honest, at the very least.”

“I’d intended to dose you with Nepenthe in the first place. I would much rather have worked with Graves,” Vinda sniffed. “He is beautiful, isn’t he? But my master insisted, my master Foresaw this eventuality. There is no use going against his will, Scamander. He Sees all.”

“But you just said,” Newt began. Vinda glared at him.

“If you want Graves alive, if you wish to retain your mind, you will cease your puerile resistance and do what my master wishes. That is the best advice I can impart, Scamander. He has ways of controlling you, of bending you to his will. My master is resourceful, and he is clever,” Vinda turned to the fireplace, threw a handful of powder into the flames and muttered something. Newt suspected there was a localized Silencing charm at work. The flames flared green and tall.

“We’ll see,” said Newt, and Vinda moved aside, and Newt stepped through the fireplace and into the unknown. 

The air was colder, through the flames, and Newt was glad he had left Percival’s wand in his case (being attacked on sight was becoming par for the course, lately) when someone hit him with a Disarming spell.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not as polished, I'm afraid, but at least tis something! 
> 
> I grow fonder of Vinda, haha. Poor jealous lackey that she is, trying to please someone as utterly demanding and uncaring as Grindelwald. Eh, it's her own fault.
> 
> ty for reading as always!!


	36. Grimsditch's Office

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: period typical attitudes about... well, everything, but particularly sexual orientation. This and possibly next ch are (arguably) the darkest of the story.
> 
> double the length, baby. I won't be updating for double the time, tho, so I'll see you in two weeks. Need to get some grad school shit done and write a bit, I'm posting as I'm writing now... sorry about that, that means fits and stops, bursts and delays as the compulsion dictates. I hope it's not rushed, I fear it may be...
> 
> thank you so much for the feedback. 400 comments! granted, half are me replying, but still (!!) I am overwhelmed and grateful and honored. And always very happy to hear from you lovelies, to get feedback and/or to talk.

**Chapter 36:** Grimsditch’s Office

 

His case stood against the wall, innocuous and out of reach. Newt was seated in a wood chair, back to a table with a variety of quills, pens, penknives, razors, wands and cigarettes scattered on its surface. He could see it when he craned his neck. Grindelwald stood in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat with his back to Newt, smoking and surveying a wall of newspaper clippings and photographs. A map of the world and more detailed maps of Europe and North America were also posted on the wall, red and blue markers scattered across their surfaces. There were family trees, replete with detail about old bloodlines Newt had never cared for. Bubbles of white light floated at the ceiling, casting a cool glow in the windowless room. The walls were stained brownish-yellow near the ceiling with decades of cigarette smoke.

Newt recognized certain symbols on the maps, while others blurred when he tried to make them out. It seemed Grindelwald was searching for something, that he was orchestrating several coups, that he had inside information he should not have. Whenever he tried to form a coherent idea of Grindelwald’s strategy, Newt’s vision began to blur. He was not sure if it was lack of sleep or a security measure on Grindelwald’s part.

Grindelwald exhaled a plume of smoke from the cheap Muggle cigarette and turned to Newt. He wore a familiar brown bow tie, looped loose beneath his collar.

“President Kneedander, a suggestible fellow,” Grindelwald gestured with the cigarette and bit his lip, mustache twitching, “has been giving his ear to Grimsditch. Redford’s got in my way one too many times. It was on his instructions that goblin nearly murdered you,” Grindelwald added, sighing a billow of smoke. “Grimsditch wanted a trophy dragon. He’s quite taken with your work, Newton, but he doesn’t understand you like I do. No, I daresay no one does,” the corner of his lip curled. Grindelwald took the cigarette daintily between two fingers and tapped it against the crystal ashtray floating beside him.

His powder blue waistcoat was open over wrinkled white shirtsleeves, coat and jacket flung over another chair near the door. The Elder wand peeked out of his right sleeve, secured in a holster. There was cigarette ash on the wrinkles of the collar and sleeves of Grindelwald’s shirt.

“I find it difficult to believe that you had nothing to do with the theft of the dragon eggs,” Newt said. The air felt too close, dense with tobacco and dust and Grindelwald’s magic like a threat on the edge of hearing, the zing of ozone, the low burn of bourbon lightened by the tart sweetness of pears.

“I knew of interested parties, so I had Vinda keep an eye out,” Grindelwald squinted at the cigarette between his yellowing fingernails and shot a curious, critical look at Newt. “I have no need for primitive talismans like shield scales. Besides, I did not wish to upset you,” he smiled bitterly, fondly, “dearest.”

Newt tugged at the chains on the armrests and feet of the chair binding his wrists and ankles, and started when Grindelwald summoned something. It was only a bar of soap, which Grindelwald rubbed between his palms until it foamed in a conjured water bubble. He left the cigarette between his lips and tied an apron round his waist, then walked behind Newt, ashtray hovering beside him. Newt craned his neck and started when a pair of hands began to spread foam over his jaw, caressing his chin and lips, his cheeks and neck. Soapy water dripped down his collar. Newt pushed his lips together and stared ahead. His fingers wound about the chains on the armrests. The Swooping Evil’s cocoon was warm in his sleeve, but Newt waited.

“Don’t move,” Grindelwald muttered around the cigarette. He brought a straight razor to Newt’s neck and slid it slowly up along his throat, over his jaw. Newt barely dared breathe. Grindelwald repeated the motion, falling into a rhythm, sighing and _hmm_ ing his content. He used the apron to wipe smudges of foam from Newt’s skin and the razor, and occasionally exhaled a smoking breath near his face. Newt felt the ash from the end of the cigarette fall into his hair. The tension in Grindelwald’s hands and shoulders melted away as his hands gained confidence, all his concentration on the task, on Newt, who was all tension.

A finger at the corner of his lips. A razor near his ear, the scrape of it across his damp, soapy skin. Grindelwald’s pale face attentive and centimeters away. The dark wizard leaning forward, his eyes and hands directing the tilt and angle of Newt’s head. Newt avoiding the gaze that traced the outlines of his features, sitting impossibly still, his breathing measured and shallow, blinking almost convulsively.

Newt could not fathom why Grindelwald needed to make another show of power, but he endured it. If he closed his eyes he could imagine this had all been a prolonged nightmare and he would wake on the Orient Express to see Percival’s dark eyes, alert and curious and full of warmth. He retreated into the memory, recalled the lighting of the compartment and the bump and sway of the train, the warm autumn feel of Percival’s wards thrumming around them, Percival’s hand cradling his face…

There was a burning pain at the back of his neck and Newt’s eyes snapped open, a breath whooshing from his mouth. The razor was sliding over his cheek in more a caress than a shave, now, and the cigarette singed the back of his neck. Newt smelled the smoke Grindelwald exhaled over the burn, as if to soothe it. The razor bit into Newt’s face and carved a shallow, stinging curve across his cheekbone. Two fingers smeared the cut, healing it instantly.

“There,” Grindelwald breathed, running a hand over Newt’s smooth jawline, tracing the tendons in his neck down to Newt’s shoulder, then outlining the cigarette burn on the back of Newt’s neck with an idle fingernail. “Much better. As I was saying. Grimsditch has a memorandum book bound in dyed dragonhide. He keeps it on his person or in the top right drawer of his desk, in his office at MACUSA. Thirty-ninth floor, southeast corner of the building.”

“You want me to retrieve the memorandum book?” said Newt. “That will be your first favor?”

“I want the book,” Grindelwald agreed, “And you will replace it with this.”

Grindelwald put the razor away and slipped a hand into Newt’s breast pocket. Newt stiffened but Grindelwald only placed a small book into Newt’s pocket before he put his hand over Newt’s heart. His other hand was on Newt’s shoulder. He paused there, hands warm against Newt’s shirt and skin. Then there was a vial at Newt’s lips, and the hand on his shoulder moved to the back of his head, pulling on his hair. The other hand moved up from his heart and covered his nose and Newt couldn’t breathe… he recognized the force-feeding method, though Newt coaxed his beasts to drink medicine gently, with a treat and not by depriving them of oxygen.

The hand at the back of his head pulled on his hair and the hand clasping his nose and tipping the vial into his mouth pushed his head back, such that his eyes met Grindelwald’s above him, saw that face upside down and smirking. Newt noticed absently that Grindelwald’s left ear was pierced in several places. He couldn’t breathe.

Newt’s eyes watered and Gellert was in his mind, he could feel him, and he couldn’t _breathe_! Newt swallowed the potion, to the whispered praise of foreign thoughts in his head, his face cradled and neck straining between unyielding hands and mismatched eyes. The sweetness was less cloying than the previous dose—more of a honeyed flavor, really, that splashed pleasantly across the tongue. But Newt’s lungs were desperate for air, burning for oxygen. He couldn’t feel his fingers, and the voice in his head said, _don’t call the Swooping Evil, you won’t need her_. When the magizoologist’s vision darkened and he was sure he would pass out, Grindelwald removed his hand from Newt’s nose and mouth, uncurling the other from his throat.

Newt panted great gasps of air, feeling giddy, feeling strange, coughing and hacking and wheezing. 

 _Well done, pet_.

“That will be your first favor,” Gellert said, and drew back. “If there is anything living in Grimsditch’s office, you are free to do with it as you see fit. Take your case,” Grindelwald removed his apron, stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray and took another from the table. “Dismissed.”

The chains came alive and slithered from his wrists and ankles. Newt rose, light-headed, and went to take his case. He paused in the door, looking back. Grindelwald was smoking and frowning at his schematics. He looked smaller in his shirtsleeves, but there was a coiled power in the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head. Newt did not linger.

He strode down the bright warehouse hallway as though he knew where he was going. Newt didn’t, but he felt a strong compulsion to get to the Woolworth building. Newt wrote it off as needing to complete his first favor. He ignored the first two doors he passed, but the third seemed better. He opened it and found a fireplace, a jar of Floo powder, a bottle of Firewhiskey on a coffee table. Thoughtlessly, he pocketed the bottle and Flooed into MACUSA.

Luck seemed on his side. Lunch hour and the change of shift allowed Newt to skate past security and walk freely to the lift. He felt giddy, like whistling. He kept his breathing even, consciously trying to rein in the misplaced euphoria. When he unclenched one hand from his case, his fingers trembled. He clasped the case with both hands and stared at the floor.

“Thirty-nine, please, Red,” he said to the House Elf, who grunted and obliged.

And then, “Actually, the other way, down to Wand Permits, first,” Newt said. He wasn’t sure why, but it struck him suddenly that he’d like to stop into the basement offices. “So sorry, Mr. Red,” he added.

The wood-paneled maze of desks and filing cabinets was familiar. Newt sidestepped the flying memos with ease, and recalled how he had been forced to open his case here, only to discover it was filled with Jacob’s pastries.  
  
“Tina,” he said, leaning against a desk and taking in his friend. Tina was crouched, excavating files from towering stacks of papers. When she heard her name she gasped and nearly set the stack falling. Newt waved his hand and wandlessly straightened it. This was strange, as he was not very proficient at wandless magic.

“Newt! Shh! I’m not supposed to be down here. I think I’ve found something…Newt? What are you doing here?” Tina spoke in an undertone, her worried eyes taking in her friend. “Oh, you don’t look well, Newt. What’s happened? Where’s Percival? _Oh_ , why would you bring your case _here_? Again?”  
  
“Hi, Tina,” said Newt. “I have an errand to run on Percival’s behalf. What are you doing down here?”

Tina’s eyes scanned the room desperately, and then she tugged Newt down until they were both sitting on the floor below the overflowing desk.

“Grimsditch’s men have been crawling around here, trying to keep me from looking them up. But I think some of their wand identification numbers were falsified... Newt, something’s not right in MACUSA. Kneedander wants to try Picquery for treason! I thought if I could undermine the credibility of the prosecutor, I might get them to call it a mistrial…Oh, Newt, you really don’t look well. What happened with the dragons?”

“I’ll give you the full story later,” Newt whispered, “The dragons are safe, but Percival needs me to do this. Please trust me, Tina…” Newt paused, tilting his head. Approaching footsteps sounded, faint voices grumbling incoherently at the end of the room. Newt stuck his hand out from behind the desk and flicked his wrist—the Swooping Evil collided with a stack of parchment on a far desk and was lost in a mess of papers.

“Damned memos always wreaking havoc!” said a surly voice, and Newt nodded at Tina and darted out from beneath the desk. He made it to the elevator before he remembered to worry about the Swooping Evil, which, he discovered, was staring at him from the ceiling where it was splayed in its blue-green glory. He waved and she glided neatly into his sleeve, retreating into her cocoon.

“Thirty-nine, eh?” said Red. Newt gave a nod, catching his breath, fighting down a grin.

The hallway was deserted but Newt felt a strong compulsion to loiter outside the office for a moment. He had never been in Percival’s office, but he knew with certainty that Grimsditch now occupied just that space, and that security on the DMLE’s office was nothing to say _Alohamora_ at. 

A witch with a cleaning cart, one of its wheels loose, rattled down the hallway and took a tarnished key from within an apron pocket. She unlocked and opened the door to the office, and was about to enter when Newt spoke without meaning to.

“Good thing you’re here! The Director’s office needs debugging,” said Newt, in an authoritative voice more suited to his brother. “They’re sending up a Cursebreaker but meanwhile you’ll need at least half a dozen trash cans for the locusts and twice that for the doxies. _Evanesco_ just makes them double in size. Oh, and some anti-venom if you don’t have the standard repelling gloves.”

The cleaning lady backed away from the door, and Newt slid his foot behind the jamb, wondering how he'd remembered the Americanism for rubbish bins. 

“I’d better get Tildie’s brother’s dragonhide gloves,” said the witch, leaving her cart. “Director keeps forgettin’ to tell staff about his new acquisitions. Scared me half to death just last month…”

She walked away, mumbling to herself, and Newt suddenly felt intense sympathy for the cleaning woman who had no one to speak to. But then the euphoria bubbled back, and he stepped through the door into Percival’s former office.

“ _Riddikulus_!” Newt said, waving Percival’s wand, but nothing happened. He was forced, once again, to confront that humans were significantly worse than a Boggart’s projections.

A stag’s head, its nose black over yellow teeth, dead eyes of glass, branching horns gilded at their tips, was mounted over a wide oak desk. Newt’s eyes were drawn to the corner, where a Griffin stood on its hind legs, wings extended unnaturally past their span, eagle’s head and claws poised to swoop down as though from the air… it had been stuffed and Charmed to show off its frame, its lion’s back paws spread wide to support the artificial posture. Newt swallowed with some effort and averted his eyes.

Everywhere he looked was death. Two Graphorn heads were mounted on the wall so that their twin golden horns served as coat hooks. Eight four-thumbed feet completed the set. A stuffed Tebo stood atop a high shelf, its polished tusks nearly brushing the ceiling, its ashen fur bright in the chandelier’s light, the African warthog fierce even in death. Its hide was highly prized, Newt registered dimly, and yet here it was, intact save for the glass eyes. 

Newt gasped and dropped his case with a _thunk_ to the floor, his heart in his throat, when his eyes landed on a premature Occamy suspended in a glass jar, silver egg in two neat halves and polished. There was a mosaic of multicolored dragon scales over a glass case with a section of Basilisk skin and an Ashwinder corpse in Stasis. Newt raised a hand to his lapel to block Pickett’s view of a garland of dried Bowtruckles strung together like a morbid Christmas ornament. They were draped with bulrushes that Newt recognized, after a moment, to be what was left of a Kelpie’s scalp. It was mind numbing, to see so many atrocities interwoven into what should have been the banal furnishings of one room. Newt felt nausea rearing, and fought it down with deep breaths.

There was a sudden rapid knocking from within his case. Newt snapped to and undid the latches, and a silver-furred paw handed him a dark wand. Without thinking, Newt focused his magic and Disillusioned the case. Dougal snatched the wand back and his paw disappeared, as did the case, blending into the parquet and paneling.

Newt turned, past several stuffed Kneazles that made his stomach turn, to Grimsditch’s desk. He withdrew Grindelwald’s memorandum book and swapped it with the one in the top right drawer, hid the original in his breast pocket, and paused. Atop the desk lay his book, opened to his illustration of a phoenix. On the desk stood a cage, and within it was a pile of ash… Newt’s wide eyes darted from the ash to the book and back again, wondering, hardly daring to hope.

“It’s a little disappointing,” said a low voice from the doorway. “I mean, after your glorious depiction, the reality of the chick-runt is not nearly as elegant. Perhaps it's true, what they say. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

Newt started, banging his leg against the desk. Something shifted in the pile of ash, and he ignored the man in the doorway and began to fiddle with the cage, trying to pry it open.

“ _Alohamora_ ,” said Grimsditch, in that same gravelly low voice, waving his yew wand. The cage snapped open and Newt carefully brushed the tips of his fingers over the ash heap to reveal a bald, wrinkled head, a tiny yellow beak, a pair of beady black eyes, intelligent in a baby bird’s face… The chick gave a tiny chirp, and wonder swept through Newt, that it had survived these conditions, that it was _alive_. 

“I tried to kill it,” said Grimsditch matter-of-factly, elbowing shut the office door with a _click_. “It would not die, remarkably, or if it did, it regenerated each time leaving nothing but ash. Can’t make a likeness of ash, can I? Had to be creative,” he waved his wand and a wood cabinet opened to reveal a taxidermy Augurey, plucked bare. Newt registered with dim horror that its wings had been wrenched from their sockets to increase the wingspan in an effort to make it resemble a phoenix. Dozens of red feathers were planted, with Permanent Sticking Charms, to the Augurey’s skin in careful order.

“I had a House Elf start it, but then I found it relaxing to work on now and then. A personal project between man and beast hunts, as it were,” Grimsditch seemed pleased. He looked to Newt. “But you’re my inspiration, of course, Mr. Scamander. Never dreamed you’d wander in here. What do you think? It’s not ready yet, of course. Damn bird keeps burning up if I take too many feathers at once, if I try to hurry its growth along in any way. Foolish creature. But I’m progressing nicely.”

Newt gaped, finding no words.

“Would you say it’s promising?” prompted Grimsditch, eyebrows raised. His eyes were cold and Newt felt sure that he was being provoked, and he could do nothing but take the bait.

“These are-these are living creatures!” Newt said, licking his lips and making several false starts. His voice was hoarse. “I’ve met plenty of collectors and I’ve never understood how you can order living creatures killed just to display their corpses. Is it some misguided affirmation of your strength? Is that the American obsession with hunting helpless game? How can you sponsor such atrocities?”

There were tears in his eyes, for the first time in days. The numbness of constant fear had given way to the burning of righteous anger, and Newt felt like himself, like a horrified and exhausted version of himself. He let loose on Grimsditch, then, a torrent of words more eloquent than he thought himself capable of, a torrent of feeling—did the politician believe himself capable of subduing nature; was there no inherent worth in lives unlike his own; where was the honor in killing and stuffing less powerful creatures; did their disappearance mean nothing, did he not wish wizarding children to one day witness these creatures as more than corpses and potions ingredients?

His audience was not receptive. When Newt glanced his way, he saw that Grimsditch’s thin lips were pressed together, the lower extending in a surly pout.

“I thought you’d appreciate my office décor, but I see you’re one of those academic elitists who anthropomorphizes beasts despite his so-called expertise,” said Grimsditch, and Newt suddenly recognized the expression of an overgrown schoolboy, sullen and petulant.

Grimsditch snapped the cage closed.

“I’m sorry you don’t approve of my pet project,” he said, his eyes glittering and cold. “I can’t say I approve of people sneaking about my office, especially those suspected of international smuggling. Yes, indeed,” he waved his wand, and heavy chains materialized around Newt, forcing his arms behind his back and to his sides, wrists cuffed and ankles shackled by a length of chain, the weight of it all making him droop. Grimsditch's dark eyes stared, unabashed, and Newt shrunk back. Grimsditch brought his hand up and pushed back Newt’s fringe, and Newt met his dark eyes.

“You’ve looked better, Mr. Scamander,” he said critically, and then he sniffed. Newt blinked, thrown. “Lavender and tobacco soap? I had you pegged for a queer,” his face was triumphant, then, “Disgusting, inverted, delicate boy,” he inhaled near Newt’s jaw and Newt jolted back and fell painfully against the bookshelf behind him, chains clanging, panicked. He couldn’t get at the emergency Portkey or his Swooping Evil and he hated the look in Grimsditch’s eyes, hated this office and the strange euphoria that had led him here… his breathing was ragged. He tried to think of anything else, even Gellert’s treatment was better, if only Newt had replaced the memorandum book and Disillusioned himself, earlier, or if he could travel back to when Percival occupied this office.

Grimsditch shook his head and frowned down at Newt, lines of revulsion ruining his handsome face. “You are too pathetic. No matter. All my taxidermy menagerie here is legal. Now where’s that Expanded case of yours, I wonder? I would bet that your permits aren’t in order, Mr. Scamander. I will be glad to issue them,” Grimsditch sneered, “I’ll have an Extermination Squad take good care of your creatures, and they’ll be very comfortable in their new home,” he looked about his office. “Got some room in the back corner by the Griffin there. Did you see my Griffin, Mr. Scamander?”

“Your Tebo’s tusks have been forged,” Newt ground out. Grimsditch’s expression fell.

“Now why would you go and say something like that?” he began, kneeling down to where Newt had fallen. Behind him, the phoenix cage atop the desk was opening, a heap of ash and chick floating out. 

“It’s clear from the play of light on bone,” Newt hurried. “You should arrest your supplier. They’ve cheated you.”

Grimsditch was frowning, looking between Newt and the Tebo, when an alarm blared from the hallway. Grimsditch paused, listening. The chick vanished into thin air, the cage closing softly.  
  
A moment later there was an urgent knock on the door and a pair of men in suits rushed in, one whispering directly in Grimsditch’s ear. The DMLE had risen from menacing Newt, and he surveyed the magizoologist darkly as he spoke in hushed tones with the suits. Newt caught the tail end of the conversation.

“That goblin... What's its name?”

“Gnarlak, sir,” said one of the men.

The other one muttered on the edge of hearing, "...apparently been selling them to the nomajes, in violation of the Statute... never acted so brazenly before..."

“Right, I’ll be in the bullpen. You, take Mr. Scamander to the lower holding cell. I’ll deal with you soon enough,” the last was said directly to Newt as Grimsditch left his office. The Auror grabbed Newt bodily by the chain connecting wrists to ankles and pulled, making the magizoologist stumble in the heavy restraint.

Once the men had left, something shifted in the room. The blaring of the alarm continued, but there was also a light shuffling as of footsteps. The door opened and closed softly, of its own accord, and all was still once more.  
  
* * *

“I could kill for a fine bottle of Firewhiskey right now,” said the former President of MACUSA.

Seraphina Picquery was sitting prim though grimy on the bench of one of the lower holding cells in what used to be her own government. Her headdress was neat, though a modest cotton knit, and her embellished coat had been replaced by a fashionable but dusty, khaki trenchcoat. She had been daydreaming about Firewhiskey for several hours when she suddenly acquired a cellmate. 

This had been the highest security cell – a bare room of stone, the door invisible from the inside, a bench and a bucket the only furnishings. Newt Scamander had just been unceremoniously tossed through the door, heavy chains clanging against the stone floor.

“Gellert Grindelwald was here,” Newt read, and tried not to laugh.

The euphoria was back, worse than before. He could feel his bruises redoubling, exacerbated by the rough treatment. The horror of Grimsditch's office had not sunk in, yet. He shied away from the imminent backlash, his emotions whirling, senses gripping at straws, at the name etched into the stone wall.

“Does it really say that? Don’t taunt your cellmate, Scamander,” snapped Seraphina.  
  
Newt shrugged in his chains.

 "Actually, it’s your lucky day,” he said. “Seems they left your hands free? My coat pocket, you’ll find, contains a bottle of fine Firewhiskey. I’ve Charmed it shatterproof, which is fortunate.”

Seraphina frowned and knelt next to Newt, who struggled to rise and grant her access to his coat pocket. She withdrew a silver pendant with the Deathly Hallows and arched an eyebrow.

“Oh, careful, that’s a Portkey,” Newt said, “It’s in the other pocket. No, no, you’ll find it!”

Seraphina frowned but withdrew the bottle with some astonishment.

“Can you open it without…? Ah, good,” said Newt, when Seraphina proved up to the task.

“This is fine Firewhiskey,” she said, after some time. She eyed Newt distrustfully. “Please don’t tell me you’re working with Grindelwald? Then perhaps MACUSA put one of us in the right cell.”

“No, well, yes,” Newt paused, and then the latch on his cuffs clicked. Seraphina’s frown grew concerned. “Don’t worry, it’s just Pickett, he’s really shy around people, usually, so please don’t stare?”

Seraphina shook her head and took another long, burning drink.

Soon Newt was free of the restraints and rubbing his wrists and ankles, sitting cross-legged and stretching his back and praising Pickett, who was chirping and stretching and frankly, showing off on his shoulder. Seraphina eyed the creature and thought that it was not shy at all.

“I know it looks bad,” Newt said, and Seraphina snorted a laugh. “But if you can believe me, I’m not one of his fanatics. I only agreed to work with him so that he would,” Newt’s throat closed off, and he took a breath, “I’m trying to save someone,” Newt finished weakly.

Seraphina shrugged, “It’s not as if I can arrest you,” she said.

“Would be redundant now,” Newt agreed, taking a swig of the Firewhiskey. “Tina’s trying to clear your name. Your trial’s coming up, I hear?”

“None of your business,” said Seraphina. Newt was looking through his pockets for tools when he tickled the Swooping Evil inadvertently, and it unfurled its wings to drop a scrap of paper into his lap.

“Oh,” said Newt, ignoring Seraphina’s yelp. “That’s fortuitous. What an odd day I’ve been having, Madam President. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he ran a hand over his chin, perusing the scrap of parchment and handing it to Seraphina. “This should be enough to have a mistrial declared, I should think?”

Seraphina smoothed out the Wand Permit for Justice Tom Thillarky, declaring a match with known dark wizard associate Timothy Krall. Her eyes rose to take in Newt for the first time.

“You really don’t look well, Scamander,” she said. Newt frowned.

“Everyone keeps saying that, and it’s getting to be a bit rude,” he said ruefully.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dunno what floor Percival's office was on. Newt's strange behavior is deliberate & the reason will be revealed soon. And there will be trauma. sheesh. Percival would never, ever have let Newt go into Grimsditch's office.
> 
> also,
> 
> #SweeneyTodd!Grindelwald ftw. I picture him as really enjoying his Newt time, like a study break <3  
> I would like to commission this scene, actually, once I find a willing artist...
> 
> finally, I modeled Grimsditch's office off a real politician's office in America. Yeah, I know. It's awful. Ryan Zinke, the Secretary of the Interior, has a taxidermy menagerie in his office. This might tell you what kind of person he is.
> 
> "...Interior staff worked through March [2017] to get the agency chief’s office to his liking, emails show. The effort involved shuffling around a huge grizzly bear, mounting the heads of a bison and elk directly into the office’s carved oak paneling... " (see huffington post for [more](https://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/interior-department-ryan-zinke-flags-stuffed-animals_us_5a0369d7e4b0937b510f5554))


	37. Candied Pineapple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for waiting! bit of an interim chapter, setting some things up, but I reckon we could use a breath? 
> 
> notice how Newt's keeping busy to avoid feeling/thinking? it really works to a point, guys, but it's one of them short-term solutions. Also, Dougal is fantastic. And there are some canon / side-canon? characters. Eh, it's a big world out there.
> 
> not polished, but moving right along... I've been writing and needed some time to plan this, but it's coming together I think. 39-40 chapters total, I would estimate, and they will be a bit longer and a week between updates, or so. Hope everyone is doing well!! <3
> 
> as ever, thank you so so much for feedback, kudos, comments. They are absurdly encouraging and motivating and lovely, and appreciated. (Plenty more excitement in the next chapter, I promise. More than you want, likely.)
> 
> PS I should add that I don't play chess and have no idea what I'm talking about ;)

**Chapter 37** : Candied Pineapple

 

Breaking out of MACUSA’s most secure holding cell was somehow anticlimactic, especially after Newt had escaped the Death Chamber with Tina the previous year. 

He and Seraphina had bickered and polished off most of the Firewhiskey. Newt found that the whiskey dulled the intense ache in his chest that he hadn’t realized was there until it was gone and he was laughing, numbed and oddly unself-conscious. Seraphina nodded when he told her this.

“You’ll figure it out, Scamander,” she said, patting his shoulder. He was sitting on the floor and she was slouched on the bench now, passing the bottle down to the magizoologist. “You figured out how to patch worse problems. That breach of the Statute last year? I was sure the nomajes would have our heads,” Seraphina let out an unladylike whistle. “Your Thunderbird saved our skins, sonny. Not that it put the vultures off for long…”

“How did these horrible people come into power?” said Newt, setting the bottle aside and blinking slowly to keep his eyes from overflowing. He wasn’t used to drinking anything stronger than a cup of black tea. He wiped his nose with his bandaged right hand. The burn scars from the unbreakable vow were slow to heal.

“Loopholes, extortion, and money,” said Seraphina, seeming quite sober. “Old money, stale money, not the kind that can set an economy going, not the kind that’s been earned by work and risk and venture, but the kind brought over from old countries, or amassed through miserly decades, cheated out of other hands,” Seraphina’s voice was low and solemn. “Like algae clouding the surface of a pond, the green will obfuscate the truth and contaminate democracy’s clear waters… at least, that’s what my father used to say,” she frowned. “The nomajes thought people with dark skin inferior in his time. Many do, today. Their women weren’t allowed to vote ‘til seven years ago. And that’s the old ideas resurfacing, like dead algae floating to the top. _President_ Kneedander wants to implement similar laws. I couldn’t believe it at first, Scamander, but we need to see things as they are if we are to fight for our principles.”

 “I agree,” said Newt, his head thrown back to rest on the bench, his gaze swimming somewhere across the ceiling. His thoughts kept straying back to Grimsditch’s office and he grimaced.

 There was a clanging and Newt moved his head so fast the room shifted. Seraphina hid the bottle beneath the bench, but she might well not have bothered. A house elf in a raggedy apron served them a bowl of cold porridge, presumably to share. The door had materialized, opened, and closed behind her.

"My creatures are fed better than this,” Newt observed mildly.

“I had prisoners fed better than this,” Seraphina said with disgust, eyeing the lumpy porridge.

Newt’s stomach growled, but he ignored it. And then there was a sleek, black wand before his face, hovering horizontal and near eye-level.

“That’s Percival’s wand,” said Seraphina, gaping. “But you said he’s been poisoned?”

Newt took it, and his half-Disillusioned case, which had trundled into view of its own accord.

“That thing can _move_?” said Seraphina, eyes round.  
  
“Thank you, Dougal,” said Newt. “I’m afraid this is where we part ways,” he frowned, swaying as he rose only to stagger down onto the bench beside Picquery. “Oh dear, I really am sloshed. I suppose food,” he narrowed his eyes at the lumpy mass in the bowl and thought better of it, “is in order. Hm. Unless you’d like to escape MACUSA custody with me?”

“I will not be breaking my own laws, Scamander,” said Seraphina primly, and with a jolt Newt thought of Percival, who adopted a similar tone with him, sometimes. “But I do not grudge you doing so, this time,” she added, misconstruing Newt’s expression. “I’ve never known anyone to touch Percival’s wand without dire consequences. Abernathy’s hands were covered in boils for days when he tried to pass it to Percival. Lickspittle. Is that what happened to your hand?”

“No, it hasn’t given me too many problems,” Newt said. He glanced at his bandaged right hand and shook his head, as though the motion could dislodge the vow and his ties to Grindelwald. Newt rose and tapped the crown of his head to Disillusion himself and renew the charm on the case. Seraphina took a breath. Then she screamed.

When a guard arrived, door banging open, Seraphina put a hand over her chest and doubled over, panting.

“Scamander just vanished! I don’t think he was here at all. I don’t understand what Security’s been up to, letting imposters waltz in. He might have been an assassin for all you knew!” she gasped. Newt stepped through the door—or rather, he stumbled.

His coordination was shot. Making his way to ground level, Newt careened into a desk and sent a flurry of files to scatter across the floor. He had to hide behind a nearby bookshelf until the commotion cleared. Then he tripped across a chair and fell straight into a filing cabinet, stubbing his toes and bruising both forearms and causing such a ruckus he was sure someone would notice him—but the secretaries attributed it to a misbehaving ghoul. Newt managed to make it through to the lobby and then out of the Woolworth building despite his increasingly shoddy balance.

When he Disapparated silently from the street, he miscalculated and landed atop a garbage can in the alley. He emerged with a great clanging, removing the Disillusionment charm from his person and potato peel from his trousers.

The wafting aroma of baking bread was heavenly. Newt peered in through the windowfront. Jacob’s back was to the door as he rearranged a rack of cooling Niffler buns. Newt’s stomach growled again, loudly. He thought of going to see Jacob, the Muggle inviting him in and offering him that strange American coffee that Percival loved so much, a bun and a hug and Jacob’s face splitting into his wide smile. Kowalski’s was busy, warm and bustling and cozy with the fire going. But then Newt imagined Vinda or Gellert following him in, smirking… Newt wrenched himself away from the warm promise of the bakery and walked off into the November afternoon.

His face was red from the chill wind, lips chapped and hands stinging by the time he got to the New Salemer’s Church. He set his case on the floor of the dim upstairs room, cast the strongest Notice-Me-Not he could, and retreated inside.

Percival’s wand had required multiple attempts on the last spells. Newt wondered if the Firewhiskey or his exhaustion was affecting his casting. His habit of hopping down the ladder would have resulted in injury had Dougal not set a pile of hay into which the magizoologist toppled, headfirst, when he lost his unsteady grip.

“Thank you,” Newt breathed, when he had landed to see Dougal blinking his amber eyes at him from a silver-white face. The magizoologist was sprawled on his back atop the hay, head hanging to survey the Demiguise upside-down. “You’ve been a dream today, Dougal. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Dougal evidently agreed, because he pointed to the makeshift nest – a teacup full of hay – in which the phoenix chick sat, gazing at them with frightened eyes. Newt righted himself and approached, slowly.

“There you are,” he said, hands palms up and posture slouched, eyes wide and lips pressed together. The phoenix let out a weak chirp.

Newt closed his eyes and thought of the mossy forest, of Ignotus and the serenity of tending his beasts. It was with thoughts of tenderness and care that he opened his eyes. The phoenix gazed at him, its dark eyes steady, and Newt felt a little like he had when he had met Flamel’s gaze, weeks ago. A profound wonder washed over him, and for a moment Newt forgot his exhaustion and his pains. This creature had lived for a long time, and it had seen much.

“You’re safe now, little one,” Newt muttered, “Please let me help?”

There was another chirp, one which Newt took for assent. He sighed. After the chick’s experiences with Grimsditch, Newt was relieved it deigned to let him near at all. He had only observed phoenixes from afar, and nothing had suggested that they would willingly engage with a human. They had been curious about his camp, but had kept their distance. This one seemed different.

“Fetch the burn unguent if I catch fire, eh Dougal?” said Newt, but Dougal was gone. Evidently this would go very well or very poorly, Newt thought, attempting to cheer himself. He said, “I have a burrow into a small mountain for the mooncalves… Hmm, above Rurik’s cave! That would resemble a mountain peak… I really must get my wand back, I can’t do very much with Percival’s…” he paused, eyes clouded, and the phoenix nudged his palm. Newt jumped. He had not expected an advance.

“You really are remarkable,” he whispered, “after all that’s been done to you… you’re very brave,” he brought his face close to the phoenix, and saw those beady black eyes look at him, the pale yellow beak and claws sharp and small, its wrinkled, bald head tilting to match Newt’s tilted head. “Come on, then,” he said, offering his palms. The chick waddled over and plopped into his hands, warm and soft and ashy, not a feather in sight. It nosed at the bandages and settled more firmly into his uninjured, left hand.

Newt whispered as he walked with the chick, narrating his movements and introducing the phoenix to the creatures they passed. He took the wooden stair above the Runespoor’s cave into the higher altitude climes, where he had once kept a Chinese Fireball for several weeks, smuggling her into the newly-independent Tibet just after the war…  
  
“Wars are so strange and awful,” Newt was saying, spelling a cooler climate for the chick, a crooked old pine tree with branches forming a nest that he could reach.

The chick perked up in the cold, and Newt placed it into the nest and fished about his pocket for what turned out to be his last bottle of Nutritive potion. He administered a quarter dose of it by pipette, and then Charmed several water bubbles to hover about the nest. The chick’s gaze was oddly calm considering the new surroundings, and Newt was awed by its intelligence again.

“I’ll be back in a little while,” he told it, “You should rest. I’m not sure what to call you. You probably have a name already, little one?”

The chick blinked at him, and Newt felt that empty region near his sternum bloom with a spark of warmth. His fingers and face were growing cold in the spelled mountain air. He looked at the chick, uncertain.

“I need to check you over more carefully, but I don’t have my wand,” Newt started to explain, and stopped, feeling absurd. “I’ll do my best to be back soon. You’ll be eating sprouted seeds in no time, little one.”

Tufted spikes of white and yellow asphodel blooms rippled in the breeze of the meadow. Eleusia lay curled up, three heads to one tail, snoozing. Percival, too, was breathing deeply, eyelashes dark against shadowed circles beneath his eyes. He looked younger, Newt thought, settling down onto the grass next to Eleusia, younger though still careworn. Newt withdrew an unlabelled vial with a clear potion from his pocket—all Newt’s vials were labeled with messy writing, save this one—and carefully slipped it to Percival’s lips. He massaged the Auror’s throat, helping him swallow, but there was no shift in breathing, no sudden sliver of dark eye, no effect of any kind. Newt waited. The empty vial rested in the grass where he let it drop, beside several other failed attempts.

Pickett hopped from Newt’s lapel and onto the cot, then, and nestled in Percival’s boutonniere. Newt leaned his arms on the cot and lay his head down for a moment, inhaling the faintest traces of Percival’s cologne, chasing the subdued magical signature, hoping for the familiar feel of Percival’s magic and presence.

He was at a loss. He had tried treating Nepenthe like the Draught of Living Death, like a Sleeping Curse, like a Muggle coma, even. Perhaps his knowledge or his skills were simply not up to the task. When he glanced up, Dougal was there again. Newt’s expression softened.

His neck cracked, and he took a cup of lukewarm water with tealeaves (“Thank you, Dougal,”) and some stale biscuits, and his Bowtruckles showed him an entire radish they had grown (“Well done!” said Newt, but then he had to eat it). An Occamy emissary—they were getting big—flapped over with a dead mouse, which Newt refused, kindly, though he did suggest she dig in herself. They were worried, and Newt could understand; he had come home reeking of cigarettes and Firewhiskey.

"Mummy’s going to clean up and feed you in a mo’,” he said, dragging his body up. It felt difficult; perhaps the hunger and the bruises and the traveling were catching up to him. Newt felt too angry, too worried to be practical, and so he took several deep breaths and then applied the best Cleaning Charms he knew to his body and clothes and hair. He would not smell of alcohol, at least. He downed another Pepper-Up, he had several doses in Stasis, and waited for the smoke to clear from his ears. Then he began to apportion the meals, and lost himself to habit. If it was more difficult than usual, if his mind strayed to the meadow, to the memorandum book in his pocket, to the Portkey and the sleeping Auror, to the horrific office of corpses, Newt tried not to show it. He worked methodically, cleaning, feeding, praising and checking over his beasts. His hands were for the most part steady. 

* * *

The Jobberknoll was perched on Credence’s shoulder, a silent bird, and Credence followed Dumbledore on the walk up to the castle, a silent companion. He had never been in Hogwarts before, but the evening was late, the night cold, and the sky overcast. By the time they had made it to the gates, thick flakes of snow were falling onto the iced-over puddles on the ground. Credence’s breath fogged the air, and up ahead he could see the puffs of the Professor’s breath dissipate like an extension of his short auburn beard.

“A-a-are we almost there?” said Credence, hoping he did not sound as pitifully small and cold as he felt. Dumbledore turning about and waved his wand. Credence closed his eyes and felt the warmth of some charm take away the stinging of the cold air.

“I apologize, my boy,” said Dumbledore, frowning. “Winters in Scotland are no trifling matter. I was distracted by the note your friendly Jobberknoll delivered. Newt’s never this concerned unless a rare creature indeed is in peril. I fear,” he stopped himself, “but we are nearly there, and you will like the castle. I’m afraid I must ask you to Floo back to Paris. The castle’s Floo is much more secure than that in the village, you see, and it seems things are moving faster than I anticipated…”

“But what about the letter?” Credence objected, catching up to Dumbledore and matching the tall wizard’s pace. They were clearing a long bridge atop a shady ravine, an outline of turrets and towers just ahead, dark and shrouded by low, grey clouds of evening snow. “What did Newt mean? You are going to help him, aren’t you?”

“I cannot move against Grindelwald,” said Dumbledore in a strange voice. “No, I cannot help Newt in this.”

Credence stopped in his tracks and a pale hand grasped Dumbledore’s corduroy coat, arresting the Professor’s stride. Albus Dumbledore peered over his shoulder, arching a brow. Credence was surprised to find that it was his hand gripping Dumbledore’s lapel.

“Newt looks up to you,” Credence said, a flush that had nothing to do with the cold suffusing his cheeks. “He asked you for help. Newt always helps those in need. How can you just ignore him?”

Dumbledore sighed and turned to face Credence. His face was impossible to read in the darkness. Credence glared, indignant and hurt.

“I did not say I would abandon him,” Dumbledore said softly. He tugged on Credence’s hand and gestured the youth to keep walking. Credence followed, keeping pace and maintaining expectant, leery eye contact.

“Do you know, Credence,” Dumbledore said, in his Professor voice. “There are some problems in the world which do not yield to the direct approach? Such problems require tackling from all sides. They require an indirect method be used before they can yield up a solution.”

They were approaching the doors and the these swung open to admit them, and Credence gaped at the Grand Staircase in the enormous hall they entered. There was a scraping of wood on marble and a loud raspberry.

A small, portly and semi-translucent man zipped through the air, dragging a heavy wooden chest by an iron chain. The scraping and creaking echoed in the hall. The man was cackling, and then he waved to unlatch the chest, out of which burst a pair of large black spheres. These rose into the air and began to zoom about, faster than the man, even, to bounce off the walls and floor knocking portraits askew and sending candelabras flying. Credence ducked, barely avoiding a concussion when one of the black spheres came hurling at his head.

Dumbledore neatly sidestepped another one. Credence got a glimpse of something quick and gold, and then an ugly man with an enormous wart on his nose—Credence noticed the wart before he noticed the man—came barreling into the Great Hall, cursing and shaking his fist at the flying man.

“Peeves is a poltergeist,” said Dumbledore, laying a hand on Credence’s shoulder and backing them both away from the action. “Our caretaker will mind him. Evening, Mr. Carpe.”

“Professor,” said the man with the wart on his nose in a croaky voice. “Get back down here and return the Quidditch supplies, you knock-kneed villain!”

Credence frowned at Dumbledore, who tilted his head incrementally, as if to say, come on, this way. They hurried from the chaos of the Great Hall, up several moving staircases and down a dark corridor.

“The students should be in bed by now,” said Dumbledore. “But my colleagues enjoy a game or two in their leisure time.”

The sixth-floor office door opposite classroom 3C was closed, but light leaked out beneath the frame. Dumbledore knocked on the wood door and entered without waiting to be admitted.

It was a large room with a wide mahogany desk piled with stacks of essays and bottles of red ink and an assortment of strange, spindly silver instruments which moved of their own accord. The walls were lined with bookshelves containing countless volumes and artifacts, including a cloudy mirror, a large, stationary spinning top, and an assortment of colorful bottles with flowers and herbs and little lights floating in some sort of luminescent liquid.

There were three people sitting around a low table and partaking of a decanter of amber liquid. Two of them were wizards, a younger one and an old fellow locked in a match of wizard’s chess. Credence had never seen moving chess pieces before. The other was a witch of middle age who was watching the game with an amused expression. When Dumbledore led Credence into the room, she glanced up and smiled. Credence immediately took her for a stern disciplinarian and an excellent teacher. Judging by her posture, by the lay of wrinkles on her skin and the intelligence in her green eyes, she could be nothing less.

“Evening, Albus,” said the woman. “Come to watch Horace lose his last bottle of Ogden’s?”

The younger of the two wizards wore a sour expression and a brown tweed suit beneath Slytherin-green rimmed robes. He tried to laugh off the witch’s comment, but his laughter rang hollow.

“Check,” said the elder wizard. Albus surveyed the game over Horace’s shoulder with curiosity.

“Galatea, may we join you? This is Credence,” Dumbledore said. “Credence, meet Professor Merrythought,” he indicated the witch, who nodded, “My Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. She taught me much of what I know now,” Merrythought shook her head as though dismissing this claim, “Our Potions Master, just came on a few months ago, Professor Slughorn,” the younger wizard didn’t look up from the chessboard, “and of course, Headmaster Dippet,” the elder gentleman glanced up from the board. He had deep brown eyes and long white hair that fell in waves over his shoulders, white eyebrows and a thick white beard. He was dressed in deep blue robes embroidered with bronze curlicues and runes.

“Not a Hogwarts man, I take it?” said Dippet. He had a stern, solemn look about him, and his voice held a faint Edinburg accent.

“No,” said Credence, “I was, uh, I’m homeschooled.”

“American,” said Slughorn, looking up from the board upon hearing Credence’s voice. “That’s quite a long trip to make in the company of the renowned Professor Dumbledore. What’s the boy’s surname, eh, Albus?”

“Maybe you ought to stick to whist, or Gobstones,” said Merrythought, surveying the game. She wore blue robes of an old-fashioned style and cut, like Dippet, but they were less lavish and dusty with chalk.

Albus leaned down and whispered something into Slughorn’s ear. Slughorn’s brown eyes brightened and his entire posture shifted. He announced, “Knight to E5,” and the faint wrinkles about his mouth gave him a smug expression.

Dippet tilted his head on his hand and an amused frown tugged at his lips.

“I wonder, in a purely academic sense,” Albus said, placing a hand on Horace Slughorn’s shoulder to get his attention. The young Potions Master glanced up, eyes flitting between Credence and Merrythought and Dumbledore. “What do you know about the Draught of Nepenthe, Horace?”

Merrythought’s uncanny, bright green eyes darted like a cat’s to Dumbledore’s.

“It’s known as Lethe-water,” said Slughorn, shrugging and taking a piece of candied pineapple from the bowl on the low table. “And it’s unusual because it requires the feathers of a living raven. Usually, ingredients can be sourced from dead creatures, but this one specifies otherwise,” he popped the pineapple into his mouth.

“Quite right,” said Albus, nodding, “Has there ever been an antidote, do you know?”

“To Nepenthe?” said Dippet, raising an eyebrow. He took Horace’s knight and said, “Check. There are stories about it, of course. Have you found a thirteenth use of dragon’s blood, Albus?”

“Nonsense,” said Slughorn, irritation creasing his young face. He was frowning at the board, now. “Dragon’s blood is of no import to Nepenthe. It’s not known what might cure it, of course, but one has to look at the principle components of the draught. Nepenthe’s function is to help forget sorrow. It’s not inherently harmful, but when the dose is too great, it leads to effects similar to those of the Draught of Living Death.”

“Similar, but irreversible, it is thought,” said Professor Merrythought. “Might sorrow counteract it, then?”

“Sorrow, grief, mourning, all would be effective antidotes in theory,” said Slughorn, nodding. “But I think it’s simpler than that.”

Albus nodded to himself, and leaned down and whispered another hint into Slughorn’s ear. Horace’s eyes shone with a cunning gleam at renewed hope of victory.

“You’ll be buying me more candied pineapple, Headmaster,” Slughorn drawled, moving a rook. “Check.”

Dippet inclined his head and said, “Or perhaps I’ll buy Albus some of those Muggle lemon lozenges he’s so fond of.”

Merrythought said, “Might I offer you some tea, young man?”

And Credence accepted, and watched as Dumbledore scribbled something onto a scrap of parchment, which he wound with a ribbon about the Jobberknoll’s slender leg.

“You know, you bear a slight resemblance to the Blacks, or maybe the Lestranges?” said Slughorn, looking at Credence over his whiskey. “Candied pineapple, Albus?”

Dumbledore took the candy and offered some to Credence, all the while surveying him thoughtfully. Credence didn’t notice—his eyes were on the Jobberknoll as it fluttered over to a window, which Merrythought opened for it, and then out into the snowy Scottish night.

 


	38. Malaise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _please forgive me_ <3  
> (and don't forget to breathe)

**Chapter 38** : Malaise

 

The Portkey grew hot in his pocket, and Newt scrambled to climb out of his case, grabbing hold of it from outside before he could be plucked away from within. Moments later, Newt was feeling underdressed in the foyer of a very smart wizarding establishment. Three enormous fireplaces were set into the wall, Floo entrances with crimson carpets charmed to repel soot. The underground room was illuminated by false moonlight spilling from false windows and across lush carpets and marble floors. Crystal chandeliers refracted and glittered with moving, multicolored light. Fairies preened, glowing pale blue and green and yellow in tiny seats on the chandeliers. Triangular and circular glass panels veined with black grout separated the foyer from the restaurant proper. Newt could hear subdued chatter, smell roasted garlic and lamb, a mouthwatering mixture of culinary scents. 

The maitre d’ whom Newt had not at first noticed, so still was he standing in his black bow tie and so demure was his practiced stare, now stepped forth to greet him.

“Good evening, sir. You are expected. May I take your coat and your case? Right this way, please,” he said, all grace and good breeding. He did not insist when Newt hunched over his case, clutching it tighter in response.

Newt swallowed, wondering if the guests here were Grindelwald’s fanatics, potential hostages, or oblivious rich blokes. He followed the host beyond the glass panels and into the dining room.

There were more fairies here, fluttering between crystal prisms and candles. The diners were cocooned in the muffled, blurred privacy of localized wards. Newt found the anonymity off-putting. He caught glimpses of mink and jarvey-fur collars, pearl and diamond necklaces, polished dragonhide boots, the gleam of heirloom cufflinks. He could hear snippets of intonation, the tinkling of crystal flutes and the inarticulate hum of voices and cutlery. But faces, words, these were indistinguishable. He was led past long tables and small alcoves, to the very back of the restaurant where a group of men sat smoking and talking at a table. When Newt approached, there was a command and a commotion. A group of men rose and walked past him. Newt couldn’t catch a glimpse of their faces. The maitre d’ had gone, too, so Newt stepped into the local wards, past a thin veneer of darkness. 

Grindelwald was pulling daintily on a cigarette in a silver holder. He was dressed in blue and silver, in silk and fine-knit wool. Newt’s stolen brown tie was a neat bow at his throat. He glanced up at Newt, and wandlessly set his chair back. Newt’s lips twitched in a failed polite smile, and he sat. The chair scooted forward comfortably.

“I took the liberty of ordering ahead,” said Gellert, when Newt finally managed to meet his gaze. There was indeed a rich selection of fine foods on the table, steam rising from platters, others covered by silver domes. “But first,” he raised his brows, and Newt wet his lower lip, which had gone dry. He dug out the memorandum book, and handed it to Grindelwald gingerly. The wizard put down his cigarette and took the proffered book and a slow, lazy smile made its way across his face. He tucked the memorandum book into his own pocket and warmed his hands on his espresso cup. His fingers were adorned with silver rings engraved with runes Newt had never seen before.

“That’s one of three,” he said, raising his gaze from the cup. An overflowing ashtray Vanished its own contents. Grindelwald surveyed Newt for several long moments, then. Newt was hunched over his case, both hands on the worn handle.

“Did they not offer to take your coat?” Grindelwald said. “No matter. Go on, then. Bon appétit.”

Newt swallowed and blinked several times. He was beginning to feel distinctly ill, now, and more than a little confused.

“Eat, darling,” Gellert’s eyes were kind. Newt looked to the platters set before him and failed to suppress his nausea. The smell of roasted vegetables was mouthwatering, but the visions lingering before his eyes made Newt’s stomach roll.

“The duck was caught on a hunt,” said Gellert, “All very responsibly harvested, I assure you. The vegetables are grown in a greenhouse, upstate,” Gellert uncovered another platter of grains and sautéed tomatoes sprinkled with cheese, wafting the aroma of leeks and rosemary. 

“Whom were you hunting?” Newt sniped. He swallowed and averted his gaze immediately, hot fear rippling down his spine.

“Eat,” said Gellert again, displaying more patience than he had heretofore. 

“I really couldn’t,” said Newt, curling his shoulders inward.

“As a personal favor,” said Grindelwald.

Newt looked up quickly, but Gellert’s gaze was steady. Newt picked up his fork and began to chew, eyes flitting to his plate. He swallowed with some difficulty. Gellert was holding out a goblet, and Newt took it expecting sweetness, but it was a claret, full-bodied and dry with just a hint of melon.

Newt drained it in several swallows. Gellert topped them off.

“A toast,” he said, raising his goblet and, with a wave of his hand, transfiguring the metal goblets into crystal. He looked pointedly at Newt, who obliged and raised his glass.

“To what?” said Newt, feeling queasy from the food and company both.

“A successful alliance,” said Grindelwald, clinking his glass to Newt’s and giving a short, dazzling smile. “May it be fruitful in the future, beyond what we now imagine,” he held Newt’s gaze as he drained his glass.

“You dread my war?” said Gellert, setting down the glass and tucking into his own meal.  
  
“Please stay out of my thoughts,” said Newt, looking away. 

Grindelwald suppressed a laugh. He savored the dark meat of the duck, chasing it with lingonberry jam and a bite of spiced squash. He took another sip of wine and then said, 

“Legilimency is unnecessary here. Your worry is writ upon your lovely face, plain as the freckles… and almost as fetching.”  
  
Newt busied his shaking hands with dismembering a bread roll.

“You remember the last war vividly,” Grindelwald continued. “It was terrible, yes? But it can also be a great force for good, an engine for transforming society. I can guarantee everyone remembers the last war. This is why my war will be won quickly.”

“How can you sit there and calmly discuss mass slaughter?” said Newt hoarsely. He tilted his head, lips pursed, and Grindelwald spared him a fond half-smile.

“The collective grief will make resistance unendurably painful. I will strike fast and hard,” Grindelwald’s eyes were shining, his accent surfacing in his consonants, “France and Poland, then all of Europe, will see the truth. They would surrender before facing death again, when it is so fresh. The war was bloody, but it paved the way for our Wizarding Revolution, which will come fast and fierce upon the world! I have such resources, Newton,” he took Newt’s bandaged right hand between two warm, pale hands. 

“I fail to see anything good about a war,” said Newt dryly, but he did not pull back his hand. 

“But you are pining, my dear!” said Grindelwald suddenly, looking like he had been told an off-color joke. “That has been clouding your enjoyment. I did promise to restore your precious Percival,” Grindelwald patted Newt’s hand. “I am a gentleman of my word.”

“Of your vow, in this case,” said Newt. He felt very full after several bites, the food too rich after days of surviving exclusively on Nutritive and Pepper-Up potions and the occasional biscuit. “Justify it how you will, but I will do everything I can to stop your war before it begins.”

“Your creatures will be safer after the Revolution, as will wizards,” said Grindelwald, “in time, you will see what I have been telling you. I can be patient, Newton. That is, after all, what the Greater Good requires. And it requires much of us. Not everyone can afford the luxury of pacifism.”

Grindelwald inflected the last word with a delicate distaste, as though he had bit into a moldy grape.

“You proved yourself willing to die for your dragon, at any rate. Why is it so wrong that my followers are willing to die for a better world for wizardkind?”

“It’s not so much that they’re willing to die as that they’re willing to volunteer others for the task,” said Newt.

“You know the natural order of things, Newton,” Grindelwald was saying, thumb sliding up and down the inside of Newt’s wrist. Newt could feel the thick, ropy scars from their vow along Grindelwald’s right hand. How had they healed so quickly? His hand was tender beneath the ministrations, his own skin mending slowly, the blistering burns soothed but quite raw beneath the bandages. There was a tingling in his hand, overtaking the pain. “There are predators and prey, the strong and weak, wizards and Muggles, and they will always be at each other’s throats. But I propose a humane solution. Our position of hiding is an untenable one, Newton. It endangers us and them, in the end. We hide to our own detriment. When we abolish the Statute, then we can begin the real work, the real foundation for lasting peace.”

“You would build your utopia on blood,” said Newt, “And I don’t think you believe that blood-purity nonsense. …it is just rhetoric, isn’t it? What is it you want of me, Gellert? How can you convince me when you don’t believe it yourself?”

“People like you and I know that it is ideas that mobilize the masses into action,” said Grindelwald, his lip curling, “The spread of influence and ideas is the front on which we win our wars, Newton. This is an age of ideas. Your book launched for just this purpose. I have rallied hundreds of thousands to my cause with my words, and you,” Grindelwald narrowed his eyes, his grip on Newt’s wrist becoming steely, “your audience is hundreds of thousands more…”

“My book doesn’t work like that,” Newt objected, failing to free his hand. “I can’t influence others against their will. And I wouldn’t.”

“No? What did you make of Grimsditch?” Grindelwald said softly. Newt jerked his hand back convulsively. He didn’t notice the absence of pain. The mismatched eyes peered deeply into his, and the suppressed memories reared up with sudden violence.

The nausea redoubled, and he was overwhelmed with images of the day, his overconfident walk through MACUSA (why had he gone down to Wand Permits?) and the fresh horror at seeing Grimsditch’s office, the tortured phoenix chick, the wasted lives of Graphorns, already near extinction…

Newt’s memories floated up as though suspended before his eyes. Grindelwald’s black and blue eyes stared into his like twin daggers. Grimsditch was calling him names and Newt fell, and Grimsditch was telling him he was pathetic and Newt believed him, like he had believed the Slytherins and Gryffindors, once…He needed to do better, he needed to be better, swifter, more resourceful, braver, more like Theseus. Then perhaps he could save some small part of the world that would otherwise be lost forever, exploited and murdered and used for parts. 

The grief for lost creatures overwhelmed him, and he was weeping into a silk coat, clutching at the material, a warm hand intertwining with his, another at the back of his neck. The Sudanese girl was only one of a numberless sea of lives, gone because Newt hadn’t managed to do better. He made a point to remember them, to revisit his diaries where he had memorialized them. But never had the lost creatures been conjured up so vividly before him.

His thoughts ran madly, feverishly, and there was a voice saying that it would be taken care of, that he would be taken care of… He cried and cried, as though a damn had burst, and just as stones crumbled in the onslaught of water, Newt’s shortsighted numbness dissolved in a current of agony and bitter regret. Wasya and the other ladies were vulnerable to a world on the brink of war. All wizards could see of his creatures were their uses for parts, their carcasses mounted on walls. Grimsditch had been reading Newt’s book! He had been using that information to… Newt was panting, there was a hand on the back of his head, still, warm and steady. He needed, he wanted, he did not know what. There was an insatiable craving for something sweetly cloying, like he couldn’t breathe deeply without it. He could not survive without it, and Percival, oh, Newt had tried _everything_ he could think of to wake Percival, he did not know what to do. Percival would know, would have saved him without bowing to Grindelwald.

They were no longer sitting in the restaurant. Newt took notice of this slowly, as if he were coming back to himself from some distance. He was clutching the front of a fine waistcoat, tears soaking a clean shirt, hunched shoulders and forehead bringing him into proximity with a warm body. The waistcoat had tiny birds embroidered into it with navy blue thread. There was a hand buried in the hair at the nape of his neck, another somewhere at his waist, holding him steady. He was hysterical, tear-tracks on his face, and the person embracing him was rocking them in a steady rhythm. It was strangely soothing, but there was something else he needed…

“There, there, pet,” whispered a voice, and Newt’s eyes widened. Grindelwald! He tried to escape the embrace, but the arms would not budge. Grindelwald held him closer, instead, breath tickling his ear.

“Now, don’t be difficult, Newton,” Gellert crooned, and then there was a vial pressed to Newt’s mouth.

Newt’s body didn’t hesitate. He had swallowed down every drop before he realized what he had done, his lips engulfing the lip of the empty vial, mouth chasing the awful, wonderful sweetness.

The effect was instantaneous. His fear and hysteria evaporated, leaving only pale shadows of anxiety at the back of his mind. The sorrow no longer threatened to tug him into fathomless depths of darkness, like a Kelpie. The euphoria was back, though different, and he sagged and felt himself being lowered into an armchair, felt fingers running over his lips, gently shushing him. He was whining, in the back of his throat, and he stopped once he realized that keening noise was him.

“Felix…?” Newt whispered, wondering why he should care.

  
“Not precisely,” said Grindelwald with an infectious smile. Newt found himself trying to mirror it, and immediately a warm bloom of cheerfulness bubbled in his chest. He laughed hoarsely, and blinked, confusion and fear resurfacing through a fog.

“What?” Newt tried again. 

“An experiment, involving Felix and a few other strains. You need not concern yourself with the technicalities, darling,” Grindelwald’s hand was pleasantly cool against his skin, now, on the side of his face. Newt closed his eyes, sighing. He licked his dry lips.

“It’s a short-term relief, I fear,” Gellert was saying, “and, I hope, a pleasant one. Any more and the toxicity will kill you, pet.” 

There were knees knocking softly against his, Grindelwald was settled into a chair very near and watching, and this was good, because it was very comfortable to just sit and bathe in the gaze of those lovely, strange eyes. There was a _hmm_ of content, Newt realized he had made the noise, that he was very relaxed, his aches fading away, lips parting. He could feel the softness and warmth of his own breath, the texture of his clothes against his skin. His lips were so dry, and Newt ran his tongue over them, thirsting after something.

When Gellert leaned forward and coaxed his lips apart with his, Newt welcomed the warm tongue into his mouth, the thumbs on his cheekbones and the knee between his legs, holding Gellert’s weight. He was lighter than Percival. Elbows dug into Newt’s shoulders. Something was not quite right. The pleasure left Newt breathless, and it was through a haze of tenderness and arousal that Newt lifted half-lidded eyes and saw that blond hair and blond eyelashes and blond brows, but… the hair should be raven-black and slicked, and Percival never loomed over him, never stabbed him with bony elbows… Newt squirmed, exhaled into the kiss, trying to break away. Grindelwald tugged on his lip and deepened it instead, pulling the air from Newt’s lungs like a Dementor, hands sliding back to tug on Newt’s hair, bringing their faces closer, another hand hot on the side of his neck. The sensations were overwhelming and absolutely delicious. With a wrenching effort, uncertain why he needed to end such a lovely feeling, Newt brought his elbows in and pushed. His arms were uncoordinated but they responded, and he struck Gellert in the solar plexus, shoving the wizard _off_.

Grindelwald brushed Newt’s tenting trousers with his knee and twisted his hand cruelly in Newt’s hair. He pulled Newt with him, and the magizoologist spilled out of the chair onto the floor, knees banging on parquet, hands out to catch his fall.

Grindelwald wiped his wet mouth with his right hand, and tugged on Newt’s hair with his left.

“What…did you give me?” Newt gasped out, hands going to his head to try and dislodge Gellert’s fingers. “The next advance c-constitutes my third favor!” he yelped, because Gellert’s fist had tightened until there were tears in Newt’s eyes, and he wanted more despite himself.

Grindelwald looked hungry and disheveled. 

“It wasn’t _such_ a good kiss, darling,” he said. “Don’t let’s get ahead of ourselves. You want to make the third favor count.”  


 

* * *

…

* * *

Ignotus was gazing mildly into his eyes, and his head hurt something awful. His surroundings were blurry, but Newt thought he could hear a rushing river. He was sitting, propped up against a mossy boulder on a river bank. The fog seemed as much a part of the weather as a product of his mental state. The bridge arched over the river and disappeared into the haze. It was the same bridge as before, the same fog, the same bone-permeating chill.

“You’ve been subjected to mind-altering magics,” Ignotus said without preamble. “It will take time for your memories to reassemble. That is, if they do at all.”

“I’m dreaming again,” said Newt, “What did Gellert give me? I remember dinner, and a potion…”

“Felix Felicis is highly addictive, but in combination with the Mauve Malaise, this effect is compounded,” Ignotus sighed.

“I’ve never heard of the Mauve Malaise,” said Newt, wincing. His vision was blurry, and he felt oddly aroused and restless, agitation and a need for an outlet of energy wracking his limbs with short spasms of involuntary shivers.

“It renders the drinker suggestible through a manipulation of the emotions. In essence, the Malaise fools the drinker into misattributing emotions. As a result, the willpower of the drinker is diminished.”

Newt blinked, somehow not feeling surprised, not feeling much of anything.

“Gellert took me to Berlin,” he said, remembering. There were bright streetlamps and shopfronts in a dark night, dancing women and men, scantily clad, exotic and sensual. He had sat back in his new suit, Gellert’s hand on his leg, consoling himself with thoughts of Percival. The night was fragmented, blurred. Chunks of memory were missing. Gellert had dragged him across restaurants, pubs, bars and dancehalls the length of Europe. It had been a strange night of playing ambassador and arm candy in fine gentlemen’s clubs and less reputable establishments.

“Your last favor,” Ignotus nodded, looking solemn. “Grindelwald wished to be seen with you. He succeeded. The Eastern vampire clans do not trust him, but his association with you changes things. You’ve earned the trust of many on your travels.”

“Why can’t I recall what happened?”

“The effects of the potions on your system, I would imagine,” said Ignotus. “It may be a blessing." 

“I know Gellert asked me to dance,” Newt said, flushing unpleasantly. “And I feel as though he had his way in that, to whatever end. But as to the final favor…”

“Do not strain your thoughts,” said Ignotus sharply. Newt swallowed, feeling very small. “You must look forward, not back, at this crucial juncture.”

“Loyalty is admirable,” said Cadmus, appearing next to his brother. He was pale and Newt suddenly felt a wave of commiseration. Cadmus, too, was forever pining after a lost love. “But remember. You are no longer sworn to serve him.”

The eldest brother appeared, bulkier and more threatening than Cadmus and Ignotus, his expression fierce, his voice hushed. He said, “You must fight the compulsions he has planted in your mind though his manipulation and his potions.” 

“But if my allies think I am on Gellert’s side,” Newt’s eyes widened, mind still sluggish. “He’s going to take advantage of them! I’ll be arrested. And Percival…” 

“If they are so foolish as to fall for the ploy, they deserve it,” said Antioch dismissively.

“Anyone who knows you at all will know you would not willingly ally yourself to Grindelwald,” said Ignotus.

“Wouldn’t I?” echoed Newt. “But I did.”

“The time for hiding is over,” Antioch said loudly. “It’s time to stand your ground and fight!”

“For the one you love, lest you lose him forever,” said Ignotus, nodding. “Sleep is an anodyne, but sorrow is a part of living.”

“Deceivers will ply you with pleasures, but pain may be your greatest weapon,” said Cadmus. “You must restore your capacity to feel, to love, to ache with it. To feel as though life is wrung from you, drop by drop, until you have nothing left to give. And then to give more.”

“To take!” cried Antioch, raising his dark, knobby wand.

“To balance the two,” said Ignotus. “Grindelwald underestimates humility. He has been surrounded by arrogance, his own and that of his allies. He must find your lack of it refreshing. He had to resort to potions to buy your compliance. If he understood you better, he would not need them—he would simply take and trust in your giving nature.”

“I don’t quite understand,” Newt frowned. “Gellert said he wanted my influence to spread his ideas, but that’s absurd…”

“You must consider carefully what you want, not what he wants,” said Ignotus. “Without losing sight of outside factors that may encroach upon your judgment.”

“I want my creatures to be safe,” said Newt. “I want Percival. I want…” he shuddered, because he did want that cruel grip in his hair, the enchanting voice stripping him of his humanity, of every bit of responsibility with it, until he was just a plaything, a pet, and he could receive pleasure and pain and be directed by expectant looks and overfamiliar touches. This fit into the narrative of his school life and expulsion, of every dismissive face and word he had to contest on behalf of his beasts in the Ministry, of much of his experience traveling. On his own behalf, Newt was content to accept the abuse, desired it, even, so that things would make sense again, so that for once he might be guided instead of fighting the current, might let go and simply _be_. But he could not fathom Grindelwald’s interest and this alarmed him. He wanted to trust the dark wizard, and this ought to have alarmed him. Grindelwald had saved his life, hadn’t killed Percival, had seemed obliging at every turn, really, using the majority of his favors to spend time with Newt rather than to force Newt to give over his creatures, or to act against his conscience. This was bewildering.

“I want to save Percival and that little phoenix,” Newt said, but Ignotus and his brothers had vanished. He stood alone at the foot of a stone bridge that was slowly disappearing into the fog. He strained his vision and his hearing. No good. The scene vanished, and the efforts to stay the dream only caused a pounding pain in his head.

***

Newt’s head pounded when he awoke, but his bandaged hand, burnt raw from the vow, was oddly cool. Used to waking to the itching and burning of slowly healing flesh and skin, Newt gazed down at his right hand. The bandages were gone, and the wounds had faded to pinkish scars. It looked as though months had passed, though the injury was only several days old. Ropy scars spiraled across his knuckles, hand and wrist. 

Just as alarming was his state of dress. He was wearing a bespoke suit (for the second time in his life), crisp white shirt pressed and starched, a green tie at his throat, a silk waistcoat striped gold and green, threads of gold in the grey suit, golden cufflinks in the shape of the ubiquitous triangle, circle and line on each sleeve. Polished brown leather shoes replaced his worn boots. He could feel socks and sock-garters of finer quality than anything he had ever worn on his feet and calves. Though the clothing was new, it was rumpled by a night of wear, smelling of alcohol and cigarette smoke, of perfume and sweat and something else. His face bore the beginnings of stubble, his hair greasy from hands running through it. Moreover, there was a bone-deep exhaustion in all his muscles. He had to chase down Diricrawls all day, once, and his muscles ached for days afterwards. This was similar. His throat felt sore, as though he were recovering from the flu, as though he’d downed a great quantity of alcohol. His lower back ached, and his limbs felt heavy, like he had engaged in strenuous activity for a length of time. Had he hit his head?  
  
“You’ve had a message,” said a voice. Newt raised himself up on his elbows. His mouth was dry and his voice was wrecked, throat tender and painful.

“What?” he said, but it sounded more like a strangled gasp.

“Here,” Vinda Rosier thrust a glass of water at him, and Newt took it and sipped slowly.

“That strange bird brought it,” Vinda waved a careless hand and Newt glanced to the windowsill. He lay upon a low sofa, in the dim room in the Second Salemer’s church and his Jobberknoll was perched on the sill, gazing at him with curiosity. Vinda unfurled the scrap of parchment and read it.

“Sorrow. Grief. Mourning. Suggested unraveling of principal ingredient, see status of bird in question. A.”

“Is that all?” whispered Newt, struggling to sit up.

“That’s all,” said Vinda, narrowing her eyes. “Is that creepy bird ill?”

“What? No, it’s a Jobberknoll. They’re silent until they die, at which point,” Newt took another sip of water, “at which point they emit a loud shriek that…”

“Save your breath,” Vinda snapped. “I don’t care, at any rate. I’m to alert Gellert when you wake,” she leered, resentful. “I wish he’d spend time with more appreciative followers. I’d love to see Berlin.”

“My case?” said Newt suddenly, and followed Vinda’s gaze. His head had been resting on it. That explained the crick in his neck, at least. “Wait. Berlin?”

A flash of memory slit like a jolt of electricity through his mind. He recalled seeing himself in his new suit, Grindelwald in blue and silver, standing before a mirror that suddenly turned inky and opaque. Grindelwald was guiding Newt’s hand over the surface in strange calligraphy, except instead of a brush, Newt held several strands of salt-and-pepper hair. Both their right hands were circled by thick scarring from the vow. The mirror’s surface rippled and cleared, opening up on a view of a meadow, the sleeping Cerberus and Percival, quivering stems of yellow and white asphodel blurred in the faint breeze.

“Child’s play,” Grindelwald was saying into his ear, “My gaze can penetrate any wards. He is desirable, isn’t he? Pretty to look at? Hmm? But he was not as understanding, as delightfully responsive,” Grindelwald nipped at the side of Newt’s jaw, and Newt snapped out of the memory with a gasp, heat suffusing his face, traveling down his neck and chest.

He brought a hand to the side of his neck uneasily. He was panting. Vinda looked sullen and bored.

“Please give me the note,” Newt said.

Vinda dangled it just out of reach. Newt lunged, missed, and ended up in an aching heap on the floor. He groaned, staggering up to lean on the sofa again. Vinda looked a little less despondent. The note fluttered from her hand and Newt snatched it from the floor and read it. Vinda had indeed exhausted its contents. He was about to burn it when it left his hand. 

“What’s this?” said a man’s torso, sticking out of the fireplace. “Come through, then, both of you.”

Newt recognized Timothy Krall from his photograph on the wand permit form. Exposed for a fraud, apparently he had escaped MACUSA and reunited with his true master. More urgently, he had seized the note from Dumbledore. Newt didn’t know why, but the idea of Grindelwald finding out about his communication with Dumbledore frightened him.

Vinda rose gracefully, her heels clacking across the dusty wooden floor. Newt rose, too, and limping he followed her into the flames, into a lavish drawing room done in maroon and gold. Grindelwald was sitting at a large writing desk, fountain pen scratching over parchment. Without turning around, he gestured they take the sofa before a low table set with drinks and a bowl of fruit. The early afternoon light spilled through gaps in the heavy drapes. There was a pair of wizards in violet hoods at the door, standing so still Newt had not noticed them at first. Krall put the pilfered note onto Grindelwald’s desk and left the room with a deferential nod. Grindelwald continued to write.

“Burke, Dolokhov, you may go,” he said, pen still working. “Wait just outside the door, please, Vinda.”

It was undeniable if inappropriate that the feeling that Newt experienced when left alone with the dark lord was relief, followed by an exciting mixture of fear and desire, dread and anticipation. He grit his teeth and swallowed. 

The scratching of the quill stopped. Gellert rose, unhurried, and turned to survey Newt with curious eyes.

“So you wrote Albus,” Gellert said softly. “What do you make of his response?”

“Professor Dumbledore is consistently cryptic,” said Newt. He knew the topic was fraught. “My three favors are complete?”

Grindelwald gave a small, secretive smile, as though he was aware that Newt was asking as much as telling him. He withdrew Newt’s wand from an inner pocket and offered it to the magizoologist, handle first. His gaze was loaded with some meaning that Newt couldn’t decipher.

“Indeed, you have fulfilled your obligations to me, Mr. Scamander,” he said. Newt felt a strange, swooping sensation in his stomach. He was disappointed, though he could not say why. But his wand felt right in his grasp, almost like regaining the use of a lost limb.

“What happened?” he said. Ignotus’s warnings rang in his ears. But he wanted to know. “I brought you the memorandum book. We had dinner. What was the final favor?”

Grindelwald’s blue eye was sparkling, his black one unfathomable. He frowned and said, “You are an interesting man, but we must get on with our business, Newton. I see you brought the case. Shall we attend to Percival?”

And Newt felt gutted, ill with some emotion he didn’t recognize. The shame and guilt made him flush unpleasantly. How had Grindelwald brought up Percival before he had? How had Newt forgotten what was most important? Grindelwald gazed at him with an expression Newt couldn’t place. Something in that gaze suggested the Niffler, when Horace had come into possession of a particularly bright jewel and gazed at it with a greedy sort of pleasure and with regret that he had already obtained it, and that now he might be forced to part with the stolen treasure.


	39. Desolate, yet all Undaunted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So thank you for sticking with it! I'm not pleased with the ending in this chapter (needs revision, time) but I owe you one so... here? Thank you so much for all the support, encouragement, and feedback, always. It is incredible and I'm so, so grateful <3
> 
> I may need two weeks for the next update, just to make sure I can do it justice... I always just want to keep going with a long story, you know? But RL calls. Be well!
> 
> <3

**Chapter 39** : Desolate, yet all Undaunted

 

Percival blinked, feeling strange. He had lost time before, when Grindelwald had buried him alive and left him for dead. He had lost weeks, albeit it felt like years. His diminished magic and the Stasis had left him half-dead, as he slowly, infinitesimally slowly bled out, and starved, and died of thirst…he still awoke to the afterimage of the wooden box, some mornings. Grindelwald had made some sort of pun before entombing him, but Percival had been in no state to hear or understand the lunatic by then. But this. This was different. He felt rested, cocooned in consolation and warmth, felt fresh air, sunlight, the opposite of the enclosed, damp cold that had seeped into his very soul…

There were flowers in the meadow where he lay, yellow and white flowers that swayed and chimed. No, those were windchimes in the trees beyond the flowers. The growling of several dogs. Percival blinked again, and his vision cleared further. Newt, dressed in unfamiliar clothes and looking thinner than usual, looking run ragged, was petting a growling Cerberus on one of its snouts. Sunlight glinted off the gold and copper in his wavy hair. He turned his head, and a look of disbelief and awe animated Newt’s features. He tore to Percival’s side, grasping his hand, breathing ragged, staring and staring as though he could not get enough of Percival’s brown eyes.

“Newt?” Percival managed, and then he rose to sit up and was engulfed by lanky limbs and the smell of cigarettes and wet dog. Newt stifled a sob in the juncture of Percival’s neck and shoulder. He was breathing very quickly, and Percival, still relaxed from his deep sleep, could feel the jumping of his pulse, the jittery tremors of excitement and exhaustion that wracked Newt and Percival, whom he was holding. Percival’s preternatural calm began to ebb.

“Oh, Percival, thank Merlin,” Newt muttered, sniffing. His voice was hoarse and though he embraced Percival tightly, there was something stiff in his posture.

“What happened with the dragons? Newt, you nearly died!” Percival said suddenly, pulling away and framing Newt’s shoulders with his hands, taking a firm grip to steady the magizoologist. He felt rested if unsteady, as though he were recovering from the flu. “You’re shaking worse than a Billywig off its axis. Are you ill?”

“I’ve missed you,” Newt gasped, giving a brief, watery smile. His eyes were bright, almost feverish above dark circles, sunken and alight with disbelief. “Percival, love, how I missed you.”

“I was cursed?” said Percival, frowning. “No, there was a dart… Rosier hit me with a potion. You saved me. What’s happened? You look dreadful.”

Newt cracked a sincere smile, then, though it looked awkward, like he was out of practice.

“I’ll tell you,” he said, “But let’s get you on your feet, first.”

With the aid of several potions and some rubbing and massaging of a skilled magizoologist, Percival’s stiff joints and muscles warmed and loosened enough for movement, and he immediately began to stretch and attempt physical feats Newt found decidedly premature. Newt still looked unwell, like he had not slept or eaten properly for over a week, but his eyes were calmer for the moment, and rested on Percival with such warm fondness that the Auror found it difficult to think of anything else, much less be sufficiently outraged at Newt’s actions. Newt had spoken until his already hoarse voice was failing while they paced the meadow, and then had brewed and fetched tea, which they were drinking. Percival had never so enjoyed tea in his life. The news Newt gave him was less welcome.

“You made the Unbreakable Vow to serve Grindelwald so that he might cure me?” Percival repeated. His voice was quiet, but no less severe. Newt swallowed and took another hurried sip of tea. He had brewed it strong and black, and the cups and saucers floated several inches above the meadow where Newt reclined as Percival tested his range of motion.

“I shouldn’t have told you,” he said.

“What you shouldn’t have done,” began Percival heatedly, but paused.

“Very well, so you promised three favors, one of which you cannot recall,” Percival said slowly, as though to himself. “And Grindelwald murdered Vinda Rosier to save me?”

Newt shook his head twice, eyes on his teacup.

“Dumbledore sent the note regarding Nepenthe, and it reminded me how specific the recipe was. That the feathers of a living raven are required. Gellert realized before I did that killing the raven might disrupt the Nepenthe, but it’s such a rare potion… And he had used feathers from Vinda’s Animagus form, a raven. He summoned her,” Newt paused.

“You tried to save her again?” said Percival, dark eyes intent, brows tilted in the half-sympathetic expression that had weaker criminals spilling their secrets to him. Percival’s lips thinned when he caught himself thinking along these lines. Newt had saved him, even if his methods left Percival fuming and horrified at once. Percival made an effort, his face became less expressive and in this, more sincere. But Newt didn’t seem to notice.

“I failed,” said Newt, looking down to his feet and then at the Cerberus across the meadow. “I thought we might rend her from her Animagus, it’s technically possible to do without killing her, but Gellert must not have believed it would be enough… He told her his reasoning. And she, she was loyal to the end. Perce, she killed herself so that he wouldn’t have to. ”

“And it worked?” said Percival, frowning. He did not mourn the loss of a criminal. Newt shook his head again.

“Not exactly,” he said, “It brought you out of the deep sleep, but you were still lost, still suspended in the depths of your consciousness, somewhere. I asked Grindelwald to help channel sorrow and grief into your mind, to chase the Nepenthe from it. Nepenthe brings relief, but in too high a dose, it anaesthetizes the faculties. At least, Gellert thought so, and Dumbledore’s note suggested it as well. So if you feel a bit sad, I’m sorry,” Newt met his eyes with a strained expression. “Gellert only helped me to concentrate the emotion and to channel it. I forbade him from touching your mind.”

Newt met Percival’s eyes, and Percival saw the bone-deep exhaustion in the lines of his face, the desperate brightness of Newt’s eyes reduced to a glassy, stubborn shine. He wanted to sweep away the worry and the events of the last week, to comfort Newt with vestiges of the Nepenthe he was still feeling. The gnawing of guilt in his stomach was only just beginning; Percival well recognized the feeling. So Percival leaned in to kiss the salty tears from his lips. Newt melted into the kiss, into Percival’s steady embrace, teacup clinking where he set it sideways in its saucer, Newt’s levitation spell fluctuating, Percival catching the china wandlessly and setting it softly upon the long grass.

“I would arrest you if I thought it would do any good,” Percival muttered into Newt’s lips, his jaw, “and I still had the authority. Dammit, Newt! You shouldn’t have been near that madman. Not to help me, not for anything in the world. No creature is worth your soul. I’m certainly not.”  
  
“Don’t be a fool,” said Newt fiercely. “You were only in the way of that dart because you were helping me with the missing dragons. And I love you." 

Percival blinked and his cheeks were dusted with pink. He frowned and loosened Newt’s green tie.

“I’m not letting you out of my sight,” Percival said, voice gruff and eyes narrow.

“Then you’d better get ready to do the rounds,” said Newt, looking away and then offering Percival a hand. They made an absurd sight, Percival reflected. Newt was limping and Percival was still shaking the sleep from his muscles and from his mind, walking as though in a daze.

Newt had him wheeling carts of hay for the Mooncalves (“They can’t subsist off pellets, you know, a balanced diet is essential!”) and then of oats, and chunks of raw meat for the Graphorns and the Nundu—these Percival Levitated from afar. Newt had been reluctant to let Percival partake of the manual labor, but Percival insisted that the repetitive tasks helped him refine his concentration. He was combing the Fwoopers for Chizpurfles when he saw Newt sway and catch himself along the wooden walkway over the Runespoor’s cave.

Newt tried to laugh it off, but Percival’s watchful eyes, trained upon the magizoologist, were now awake enough to catch details. Newt’s shoulders slumped, his spellwork, while passable, was not the brisk, bright phenomenon it usually was. His eyelids drooped over vaguely unfocused eyes and he was limping worse than before. Percival followed Newt up the wood stairs to a new habitat. A chill wind carried sparkling ice crystals into his face and for a moment, Percival recalled Mount Hoverla. But the view of Newt’s case was of suspended water bubbles and a hodgepodge of habitats, not an endless snowy forest. Near the top of the makeshift mountain, in a crooked pine tree, there was a little bird. It was naked and its skin was wrinkled and ashy, but its eyes were dark and intelligent and its golden beak opened in a strangely musical squeak of greeting.

“There you are, little one!” Newt whispered, reaching into his pocket to feed the chick a handful of sprouted seeds.

“Is this a new addition, or one with invisibility?” said Percival, approaching slowly from habit. There was no telling when a startled creature would vanish or grow spikes.

“It’s new,” Newt said shortly. “He’s just a chick, but he’ll be growing with the proper care. And then, flying…I got him from Grimsditch’s office.”

“Grimsditch-?” Percival grabbed Newt by the arm, and Newt flinched. Percival dropped his hand as though scalded, eyes wide. “Newt? Forgive me, I… Newt!”

Newt had overcompensated when shifting away from the sudden touch and winced, weight falling on his bad leg, balance teetering on the walkway of the mountain habitat. Percival reached out and froze, hand grasping air, as Newt careened backwards. He held the phoenix chick above him as he fell, bracing for an impact that never came. Percival’s wandless magic brought Newt back to the walkway, the American’s nostrils flaring in concentration. The chick squeaked as though in thanks when Newt was set gently down.

“Sorry,” Newt looked almost as guilty as Percival felt. “Bit jumpy.”

Percival’s dark eyes glinted, lips parted, breath coming in pants. He was afraid, Newt realized. And this made Newt nervous, and he spoke rapidly to fill the silence.

“I uh, I swapped out Grimsditch’s memorandum book for Gel-for Grindelwald,” Newt frowned. “It was surreal, Perce. I thought it was a nightmare, or a Boggart. But at least some good came of it—I could help one of them. He’s a phoenix,” he added, “I’ll release him as soon as he’s a little healthier. He’s been tormented enough, poor fellow,” Newt raised his eyes to the chick, which had devoured the seeds before Newt had lost his balance. “I’m surprised he’s trusted me this far, really.”

Percival nodded. His gaze had been fixed on Newt, not on the phoenix chick, however.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” Percival said solemnly. “There were rumors about Grimsditch’s collection,” he frowned, “if even half of what was said is true…”

“No matter,” Newt said, but then he swallowed with a difficulty that undermined the projected nonchalance. He set the chick gently in its nest and began to walk, gait slow, toward the meadow. Percival was oddly quiet again. Though their shared silences had been relaxed in the past, Newt disliked the tension between them now.

“Did you dream?” he asked.

“No,” said Percival slowly, “Not that I can recollect. But there was this contentment, this relief, that there was no crime to solve, no victim or criminal, no lost opportunity. Just peace. A false one, as I now realize,” he cracked a sardonic smile. “It seems I’ve been sleeping for both of us. Tell me, when did you last sleep for more than an hour?”

Newt, who was collecting the teacups from the meadow, glanced up with some surprise. Percival looked unimpressed when Newt paused in thought.

“That should not be a difficult question,” he said softly, raising his brows. “Newt?”

“Oh, very well, it’s been rather hectic,” Newt said, waspish. “I don’t exactly fancy a nap now that you’re awake,” he turned away. The cups clinked in his hands.

“You’re shaking, and it’s not just nerves,” Percival said from behind him, not coming closer. “You’ve got to let go, Newt.” His voice was gentle. “You can’t run forever, especially not on fumes. You’ve got to process whatever happened. But first you need to rest.”

“Aren't you so goddamn reasonable,” Newt said, a tremor of laughter or hysteria in his voice. “Is that what you tell junior Aurors after a raid?”

“I tell them to go the fuck home, actually,” Percival said lightly. Newt did laugh, then, but he quickly stopped. “Sometimes we’d have a drink. Their eyes would beg for Dreamless Sleep. I kept a vial locked up, pretended to spike their drinks. I used a dropper that smelled of lavender oil, and this fooled the bastards every time,” Percival’s eyes shone. Newt leaned into him suddenly, breathing deeply, closing his eyes and bringing his forehead to rest against Percival’s.

“I betrayed you and everything you stand for,” Newt said on an exhale, as though the breath could rid him of a weight. He felt Percival’s brow furrow in question against his. He looked into serious, warm brown eyes.

“I enjoyed it, when he…” Newt’s voice and face were equally anguished, his voice barely a whisper. “I tried not to, I’m sorry, but he wouldn’t stop. I’m afraid of what I don’t remember. I’m so sorry. Percival, please. I’m sorry.”

Percival blinked and there was anger in his eyes, and Newt closed his, resigned. He fought back the prickling tears. But then Percival took Newt’s hands and brought them to his face, until their mingled breath was warm on Newt’s knuckles.

“He touched me, too,” Percival said softly. “When he had defeated me, before he left me to die in a box in Marble Cemetery, between torments, he toyed with me. And he made me feel like I was enjoying myself. But Newt, that’s what he does. He tries to get into your mind by using your body, to make you vulnerable through every means at his disposal. He’s a coward,” Percival’s voice was low and he seemed to savor his next threat: “I will find him and ruin him for daring to touch you. But you need to snap out of it, Scamander.”

“I don’t think it was the same,” Newt objected, but Percival’s fierce gaze quelled his protest.

“Newt,” he said, infusing all the not insignificant authority of the former DMLE into his voice, “Grindelwald’s crimes are on him, not you. He is a criminal, and unfortunately, a master criminal. You have not wronged me. Newt—you saved my life.”

Percival’s dark eyes held Newt’s as he bent his head to kiss Newt’s hand, each knuckle, each valley, each scarred centimeter of skin.

“We’ll talk more when you’re rested, darling,” Percival said, letting go of Newt’s hands. Newt winced, and Percival said, “What?”

“No nicknames, just call me by my name, please,” Newt muttered into his collar. Percival grit his teeth and bit his lip until he tasted blood. He nodded.

“I can do that, Newt. Now,” Percival conjured a low daybed upholstered in an ivy-patterned fabric, a plush blue blanket, and he paused, raised his wand, brows drawn in concentration, and muttered something until there appeared a silver Aeolian harp. “I can’t do a decent piano,” Percival muttered, self-conscious. “Always out of tune… hmm, do you have chamomile? Lemongrass?”

Newt nodded. Soon, the jars of dried herbs were floating nearby and Percival made Newt a cup of tea.

“William Morris and tisane?” said Newt, touched despite himself. “You’re being very un-American.”

“Needs must,” Percival sighed, lip quirking. He directed Newt subtly to sit on the daybed, and slowly, very slowly drew off his jacket and vest and tie, keeping a close eye on Newt’s reactions. But Newt had closed his eyes and tilted his head toward Percival. He draped Newt in the blanket and set the steaming cup into his hands, and Newt inhaled the steam and slumped further into himself.

“Do you think,” Newt broke off. “Might you…?" 

Percival squinted and sat beside Newt and said,

“You’ve probably heard all the Bard’s tales, but we Americans have a nomaj-loving author called Baum…”

“I like Audubon,” Newt said drowsily, leaning down on the daybed. “He’s an excellent artist and naturalist both, even if he didn’t notice a single Thunderbird…did I ever tell you about Frank? I’ve been meaning to visit Frank, see how he’s doing. You’d like him.”

Percival recited histories from memory as Newt slumped further down on the daybed. He told Newt about the founding of Ilvermorny, about Isolt and James and William. After a time, Percival took the empty teacup and grew silent, listening to the soft stirrings of the harp and windchimes. The Cerberus—how had he not noticed her—was curled up at the foot of the daybed. Newt was breathing deep and measured breaths, drooling a little onto the duvet.

“Thank you for saving me,” Percival said softly. “Rest, now.”

Percival rose and began to stretch, bending in half to touch each foot, then twisting his torso to peer over his shoulders. The Fwoopers were eyeing him with hungry eyes from across the meadow. Other creatures peered out through the grass, a multitude of eyes amid the green. Percival looked back to Newt and winced. A look of fury contorted his features, sudden and fierce, before it melted into a grimace. New lay curled in on himself on the daybed, his right arm folded under his body, hand draped down to graze the flowers. Pink and white scars stood out against his tan skin, a precise spiral pattern born of powerful magic across his right wrist, hand and fingers. His face had new lines, etched of worry and, Percival imagined, fear. He was snuffling soft and wet, like one of his creatures, and Percival felt anger and indignation flaring.

He would do everything he could to destroy Grindelwald. But first, he would regain his range of motion, his strength. And perhaps feed a few more of Newt’s creatures.  
  
* * * 

A colorful whirl of flowers. Newt recognized the asphodel from the meadow, but brighter, yellow-white-green and dizzying. An overwhelming scent of something sweet, something so saccharine Newt thought he’d die of thirst from the smell of it. Oh, he thirsted for it. He closed his eyes and turned over and saw a different scene.

Gellert was shaking his head and looking at Percival as he lay at the dark wizard’s feet. Newt was kneeling between them, Gellert holding the Elder wand to Newt’s temple and then flicking it at Percival. The entire scene was cast in blue-grey, sapped of life and of warmth. Silvery-blue mist—or was it liquid?—floated from the tip of Grindelwald’s wand and into Percival’s head, into his ears and nose and mouth. Newt held his eyes closed, but they were streaming. The muted agony on his face gave the dreamy scene a visceral quality.

Newt had never seen his own face so anguished. He did not often consult mirrors, and when he did, he usually saw lots of freckles and a puzzled expression. The intensity of the emotion startled him. Grindelwald’s gaze was determined, and the crackle of magic made the air dense with the smell of burning sage and ozone, pear and tea and the feel of his magic mingling with Grindelwald’s. It gave Newt a strange thrill, and he immediately felt wretched and guilty. Percival’s eyelashes fluttered and the kneeling Newt lost his concentration, hope blooming across his features. Grindelwald’s eyes were fixed not on Percival but on Newt, a strange, wistful resignation in his gaze. Newt wondered if channeling his melancholy and grief into Percival had affected Gellert, too.

The craving for that lilac-scented sweetness redoubled, and Newt grew confused. The white and yellow flowers were sticking to his skin, his eyes. No, his clothes were sticking to him, he was stripped down to shirtsleeves and sweating. A pair of enormous blue eyes was blinking down at him. The blue warmed to amber and Dougal blinked, looking unsettled.

“Doug’l,” Newt croaked, and then Percival’s alarmed face swam into view. “Wot’s th’ probl’m? Perce’s awake,” he added brightly.

“Newt, can you hear me?” Percival said, for some reason. “What do you use to bring down a fever? Have you been near the Nundu lately?”

“Silly Perce,” Newt sighed, delighting in the cool feel of the hand on his brow, leaning into the touch and wiggling just a bit. “Just need Geller’s pot’n, couldja ask him for me? He warned me it was delicious. Or was that Ign’tus? So sweet and cool…”

Percival watched Newt drift in and out of consciousness with mounting worry. Grindelwald had force-fed Percival potions, too, and their effects had built up…But what had he given Newt? Despite the magizoologist’s suggestion, Percival did not trust he could contact Grindelwald without trying to kill him, and he was not certain of success at present.

He left Newt with Dougal and climbed out of the case. It was disorienting to discover the case was back in New York, back in the Second Salemer’s rebuilt church. The déjà vu unsettled Percival. But he needed help, and he knew the Woolworth had fallen.

When Queenie answered the door to see Percival, case in hand, she gasped and pulled him inside. She wore a checked skirt and jacket, and had evidently just come in from her new job at the _New York Ghost_.

Dusk in New York painted the sky in dusty pinks and blues and cast deep shadows in the streets that seemed to imbue even the Goldstein sisters’ cozy apartment with impending gloom and nervous energy. It was over strong coffee and freshly baked raspberry tarts that Percival learned of Seraphina Picquery’s arrest and trial.

“No one understood how she had evidence of the judge’s corruption, but MACUSA declared a mistrial and now Madam Picquery is under house arrest, which is much better. At least according to Teenie. She’s still in the office, she’s been staying late and working so much, Mr. Graves. She’s trying to pin those bastards down. Oh! Excuse me. But they’ve fired me, now, and tried to have Tina demoted a few times! I don’t know how she’s managed. Our name’s become a real issue, it’s never been this bad,” Queenie shook her head sadly and offered Graves another tart. “Someone wrote, _filthy Jew and Blood-traitor_ on her desk and charmed it to flash obscenities when the cleaning ladies tried to erase it. It’s awful, I’m writing under a false name for the _Ghost_ just to help supplement Teenie’s reduced salary,” and Queenie looked up at Graves, peered into his eyes and grew meditative.

“I don’t know what’s happened to Newt,” Percival said. He had missed his and Queenie’s natural intimacy. “I believe he’s suffering from potions withdrawal, but I have no idea how to help him. I’ve written to Boot and Dumbledore, and Margot, she’s closest.”

Queenie looked stricken but she quickly gathered herself. 

“Take me to him, maybe I can get a better read on what’s happened. That should help us figure out how to treat him.”

She tossed back the dregs of her coffee. They set the case in the bedroom and Percival gave Queenie a hand down into the shed. And promptly froze.

Newt’s shed was always cluttered, but now it looked as though a tornado had whipped through it. Jars and pots lay in shards on the floor. Cupboards gaped open, their contents spilling out and reminding Percival of raids he had conducted. He took out his wand (it felt a bit like Newt’s magic, oddly) and his gaze became piercing and sharp. He would find Newt and dispose of any invaders. Then he would scour the case for anything out of place, and renew Newt’s wards as necessary. There was no room for doubt or hesitation. Newt was ill and sleeping fitfully, entirely vulnerable… Percival jolted out of his dark thoughts when Queenie poked his shoulder.

“It’s not what you think,” she said, pointing at bloodied footprints leading out of the shed.

They followed the footsteps, Queenie forging ahead despite Percival’s cautions. She found Newt almost at once.

He did not seem to notice the profuse bleeding of his feet. His face was flushed, hair sweaty and on-end, shirt sticking to his body so that the scars and lines of muscle and bone were visible by their texture. Queenie flushed at the sight, but her worry prevailed over her modesty and she ran to Newt, whose glassy eyes fell on her and brightened a bit.

“Queenie!” he said hoarsely, “Of course, yes, I need to wake Percival,” he muttered, tugging on her sleeve and nearly tripping over his mangled feet. “He’s been poisoned by Nepenthe but I’m going to cure him,” he stumbled to his knees then, and though Percival and Queenie were both steadying him, he continued to address only her.

“I’m here, Newt, you’ve done it,” Percival said.

“The phoenix chick above the Runespoor cave, Queenie, needs regular feeding,” Newt rasped. Queenie was bent nearly double because Newt had held onto her sleeve when he had fallen. “I’ve got to keep reading, there’s got to be a cure… oh, I need it, where is it?”

He dissolved into incoherence, naming obscure potions and lapsing into different languages. Queenie lowered herself to her haunches and brought both hands to Newt’s shoulders. He glanced up and Queenie met his wandering, vacant gaze.

“He’s completely addled by something, his mind’s a mess. I don’t know what it is,” Queenie said softly. “Let’s get him up into the apartment and get his feet cleaned up and his fever down. There’s flashes of Berlin, the Moka Efti? I don’t know…”

Percival narrowed his eyes and nodded. He swooped down to pick up Newt, bridal style, and Apparated from within the case into the Goldsteins’ spare room. He lay Newt down and tended to his feet as Queenie climbed from the case, ran her hands down her skirt and then retreated to the kitchen with clanking and shifting of jars and cupboards and faucets. Soon she had brought out a cool, moist hand-towel, a bottle of honey, and a steaming teapot.

Newt lay back against the cool pillows with a sigh. His face, neck, and chest were flushed, and his eyelids were flickering in shallow dreams and memories. He saw Gellert, dressed in an off-white tuxedo, sitting at a white grand piano. Wizards and witches milled about, martinis in hand, others with cups of espresso from the Egyptian lounge where Gellert had given his speech and Newt had sat perfunctorily, resisting the urge to bolt or to point out flaws in Gellert’s appeal to the assumed biases of his audience. Now Gellert threw his head back, caught Newt’s eye, and began to play a strange, full melody. He cried, “Wagner’s _Parsifal_!” over the lilting harmony, a smirk lighting his features. Newt started and upset his glass of Liebfraumilch, which he had not tried, had not intended to try. He started and found that the pillowcase was damp and warm.  
  
“Perce,” he said hoarsely, “I need to wake Parsifal? Percival!”  
  
For some reason, Queenie’s face came into view, and she said, “Percival’s just gone to feed your creatures, sweetie. He’ll be back soon! You’ve had us worried. Your fever is bein’ stubborn but you’re toughing it out like a real New Yorker, honey. You’re doing great.”

Newt groaned and turned over.

Queenie spelled the hand-towel cool again, and contemplated conjuring a bathtub of snow to lower Newt’s fever. She had seldom felt so useless, but she was no healer, and the wanted posters with Newt’s face on them meant that a hospital was out of the question. When there was a frantic scraping on the door, Queenie jumped and went to the peephole.

Tina was fumbling with their keys. Her hat was missing, and her coat was on inside out. Queenie unlocked the door and said, “What’s wrong?”

“Grimsditch’s men tried to arrest me—luckily I was poking around Permits and Abernathy of all people warned me—” Tina panted, pushing past Queenie to the kitchen cupboard and pocketing her coffee blend, then going for their passports in the dresser. “They’re going to raid here in a matter of minutes, at most, Queenie, we need to go now. Take only what you can carry, don’t make it obvious, go, go!”

“What is going on?” said Percival from the bedroom doorway. Even though his trousers were muddy up to the knee and there was a smear of dirt on his cheek, his voice rang imperious.

“Tina says Grimsditch is about to raid our place, we gotta move, Percival,” Queenie said. “Where are we going? Teenie?”

Tina shrugged, “Anywhere but here. I’m glad you’re alive, Graves. Is Newt with you? He’d better not poke around MACUSA again, there’s warrants out for his arrest!”

“Later,” Percival said, eyes darting between the sisters, mouth thinning. “Come with me!”

The landlady was arguing with someone downstairs, a shrill voice among lower pitched voices. Tina and Queenie rushed about their apartment, grabbing a wand, a favorite slip, a jar of basil (“Leave that, Queenie!”) and a book, a well-worn romance, a tome on defense. Tina cast a longing look at the potted plants on the sill and frowned.

“What’s happened to him?” she gasped, upon finding the unresponsive Newt in the bedroom.

There were steps on the stairs, heavy clambering steps and the shrill voice of the landlady yelling after them that there were _no men allowed!_

“Over here,” Percival snapped. He held Newt’s hand in his, the case in his other hand. “Come on, Goldstein, Goldstein, grab on, dammit!”

Queenie and Tina each took Percival by an arm just as their front door burst open. Before the Aurors had taken their first steps into the apartment and commenced the raid, Percival, Newt, the case and the Goldstein sisters were gone.

“Who warned them?” said Grimsditch, sniffing and gazing about at dresses thrown over chairs and an abandoned, steaming pan of chicken broth. “Question the staff,” he told an Auror, “and set up wards. I want to know if anyone so much as breathes in here!”

He turned about, took a book off a shelf at random ( _Magical Feasts on Nomaj Means: Recipes for the Resourceful Housewitch_ ) and hurled it across the room.

“Well?” said Grimsditch. The Aurors began to poke and prod at the Goldsteins’ possessions. One took a raspberry tart from the plate on the kitchen counter, and then passed the tarts out to other Aurors when Grimsditch turned his back. 

“I knew Scamander was working with Grindelwald,” he muttered, and held out his hand for a raspberry tart. 

* * *

Percival regretted Apparating three people Side-Along and straight into the wards. He pushed down the wooziness and glanced at Newt, bundled in his coat, soaked with sweat and delirious with fever, and worried his lip with his teeth. It was just after sunset, and well below freezing.

“My case,” Newt muttered, and reached for Percival’s other hand. Surprised, Percival let Newt clutch his case to himself, muttering something in rusty French.

“Where are we?” said Tina, gazing about the desolate landscape.

They had Apparated to the edge of a lane bordered by alternating oak and maple trees and covered in leaves and garden debris. There was a dark shape in the distance, a building across a lawn that had not seen a scythe for a decade at least. The bushes and hedges needed trimming. Behind them towered an ornate iron gate—locked.

“Just outside of Ipswich, Massachusetts,” said Percival. He was sitting on the cold ground, half-supporting Newt. Percival frowned, waved his wand, and for a moment the white gleam of wards was visible, arcing across the landscape like a great fountain to the very clouds. The light dissipated rapidly, but it had illuminated a Georgian colonial building of red brick with symmetrical windows, a columned porch, added wings and an excess of chimneys. The sloping gabled roof was inset with dormer windows, and leafless vines of ivy drew spirals across the brick walls and white shutters and greenish roof tiles.

“This is your summer estate,” said Queenie, eyes wide and sparkling. “Oh, Percival, it’s lovely! Let’s get Newt inside,” she added.

They tramped over the icy grass of the lawn, through thorns and patches of dried thistle glazed with frost. It was dark, cold and ominous—Tina wrenched her head about, certain they had been pursued. Newt clung to his case and Percival carried Newt over his shoulder. 

The door opened when Percival raised his hand to the knob, and the lights came on in the house at its master’s presence.

There was not a cobweb, not a dusty shelf or floor in sight. The wood floors were polished, the gas lights had been replaced with electric fixtures to supplement the candles in sconces and chandeliers that had flared to life, illuminating the aged, dark wood of the pine beams ribbing the ceiling. Heavy drapes obscured the windows with a _whoosh_ at Percival’s gesture.

“Feel free to call on the Elves if you need anything,” Percival said, “They adhere to the old tradition, unfortunately. ‘A good elf is neither seen nor heard’ or some nonsense.”

Instead of heading up the wide stairs beyond the sitting room, which contained what appeared to be an ancient library (and a comfortable-looking set of couches, antique side-tables stacked with trophies, walls hung with haughty and silent faces), Percival took a side-door into a hallway and went into a bedroom. Wandlessly, he waved the yellow duvet aside and tucked Newt carefully into the sheets of a large, fluffy bed. He removed the coat from around his shoulders and ran a hand over his sweaty brow, frowning.

It was strangely intimate to watch, and Queenie set to work at once, opening and descending into Newt’s case. Tina followed her sister, and helped her dig up a fresh change of clothes for Newt. When they had ascended, it was to find another witch in the room.

“They followed us!” cried Tina, brandishing her wand. Before she could so much as disarm the witch, Queenie patted her and said,

“Wait, Teenie, look…”

“No one could get past the family wards without one of us,” said the newcomer, elbowing past Graves to look at Newt. “I’ll need yarrow and meadowsweet, from the pantry. Step on it, Percy!” 

Percival muttered something about bossy sisters and gave a brusque introduction.

“This is Margot Graves, Margot, meet Porpentina and Queenie Goldstein.”

“Wards clued me in that you were here,” Margot muttered, waving a dark wand over Newt. Her shoulder length black hair was neatly plaited, and her robes bore the insignia of the John Hopkins Medi-magic Institute. “This is classic potions withdrawal, I wouldn’t say he’s in any danger,” she performed some sort of diagnostic and frowned. “Can’t determine what exactly his system is craving… hmm. But it will pass with time, he’s just got to tough it out, I’m afraid.”

“Can’t you help?” Percival said with some irritation. Margot looked sidelong at her brother and back at Newt.

“What’s it look like I’m doing? Now get what I asked for, you useless copper. It’ll alleviate his symptoms.”

Percival left in something of a huff, and Queenie and Tina exchanged a look.

“Is there anything we can do to help?” said Queenie, approaching carefully.

Margot raised dark, piercing eyes and Queenie suddenly appreciated how beautiful the other witch was. Several years younger than Graves, Margot’s face was less lined, though tired-looking. She had lively, sparkling dark eyes that were intent in their focus, not unlike her brother’s. Her mouth was drawn in a thoughtful line.

“Percival’s distracted by something,” Margot said, finally. “I’d like to put him to sleep, Dreamless, you know, but I don’t want to gamble. Has he seemed confused? Dizzy?”

Queenie opened her mouth to confirm this, but there was a sudden shaking in the room, and the fire in the fireplace turned green and flashed blue.

“Who’s there?” said Margot loudly.

“Just a very old man and a lovely young witch,” said a voice from the flames.

“I know that voice,” said Tina suddenly. “Let them in!”

Margot flicked her wand at the fireplace and a web of silvery-white threads gleamed for a moment, and shifted. Then Nicolas Flamel and Willie Chasepierre stepped through the flames, shaking ash from their robes and rushing over to Newt. 

“I’ve Seen his illness,” said Willie, “Seen where you were. Merci, for letting us in. I wanted to help, so I brought Nicolas…”

Flamel had withdrawn a flask of bright red liquid from his pocket. He uncorked it and held it very near to Newt’s face. Bluish fumes escaped the flask and curled into Newt’s airways, and Newt’s breathing eased a bit, his jittery tossing receded to a more restful unconsciousness.

“Albus wrote, asked me to stop by, and then Willie asked me to accompany her. Seems the young Mr. Scamander has loyal friends,” Flamel said, turning to the doorway where Percival was standing, looking on, jars of herbs in his hands. Margot took them and went out of the room to brew, Willie following. Flamel corked the flask and hid it in his robes again.

“Mr. Graves,” he said, nodding toward Percival. “Pleasure to see you well.”

“Mr. Flamel,” said Percival, nodding.

Queenie took Newt’s case and gestured Tina to follow the other two witches from the room, leaving Percival and Flamel standing at opposite sides of the bed, where Newt lay slumbering, eyelids dancing. Percival was unpleasantly reminded of Newt’s stillness at the Parisian hospital, and he sat at the foot of the bed and gave Flamel a look of inquiry.

“I’ve wanted to speak with you and your sister, when she’s not working,” began Flamel, “About the Order of the Golden Dawn.”

“I’m not interested,” Percival said sharply, looking away. Nicolas Flamel raised his eyebrows and smiled.

“No, I imagine you’re rather more interested in young Mr. Scamander's recovery,” he said. “But war is brewing, Mr. Graves. Darkness moves across Europe. The factions of the Knights of Walpurgis have united with the Iron Guard and other groups are joining them. It is now a matter of when, not if, as you say. And we cannot trust MACUSA.”

“No,” Percival scoffed, and paused. “What is it you want?” 

“My wife, Perenelle, is what has made the past three-hundred years meaningful,” Flamel said suddenly. “Without her, immortality would lose its flavor. I have seen many people, many lives, Mr. Graves. I have spent centuries working to perfect my craft, wasted so much time on trivialities that seemed significant. I have seen lives sacrificed to the pursuit of revenge. Perenelle reminds me that being alive and living are not at all the same,” Flamel glanced toward Newt. “She is a gentle soul, and although we are often apart, I treasure every moment I have with her. I think of her constantly. But I do my duty, too.”

Percival remained silent, gazing intently at Flamel again.

“But that is not what I came here to say,” Flamel continued. “Although MACUSA’s future looks bleak, Willie has seen that things will change. When they do, we will need reliable wizards in positions of influence.”

“My career is over,” said Percival. “Try my sister if you want a Graves.”

Flamel looked between Percival and Newt, his features softening.

“You would give up everything to travel with him?” he said, brow furrowed.

“He is everything,” said Percival softly, turning away. His voice changed, took on its usual caustic authority, and he said, “Please help yourself to tea in the drawing room. Margot will be brewing in the study next door.”

Flamel gazed at the former Auror who had so casually dismissed him and shrugged.

“Very well, I will be speaking with your sister. Perhaps she will be more reasonable. I wish the young Mr. Scamander a swift convalescence.” 

Finally, Percival heard the door click, and he crawled onto the wide bed atop the duvet, perching his head on his elbow. He would look after Newt all night if need be.

Margot found her brother on his side, snoring softly, head tilted as though he was looking after Newt in his sleep. Her lips quirked and she left the potion to cool on the bedside. She joined the conversation in the drawing room, which soon devolved into whist between three witches and a renowned alchemist who laughed the loudest of them and exhaled smoke rings after he pulled on his meerschaum pipe.


	40. By this Desert Land Enchanted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the song lyrics I drew inspiration from, for the first ten chapters or so:
> 
> Die by the Drop – the Dead Weather
> 
> Let's dig a hole in the sand brother,  
> A little grave we can fill together,  
> I got myself a problem,  
> That I've been lookin' to sell,
> 
> Some people die just a little  
> Sometimes you die by the drop  
> Some people die in the middle  
> I live just fine on the top
> 
> I'm gonna take you for worse or better  
> I'm gonna make you for worse or better  
> I'm gonna take you for worse or better  
> To my little grave
> 
> Anyway, I never suspected this would turn out to be the longest thing I've ever written, clocking in at ~278 pages in my Word document. Nor did I anticipate the incredible support and encouragement and kindness I'd receive from you guys, the readers, every step of the way. So I just want to say: THANK YOU. It's been wonderful hearing from you all, and I do hope you've enjoyed it, too! And there is very little that brings more joy in this sorry life than comments, so if you've enjoyed it or just made it this far through sheer perseverance, I would be overjoyed if you dropped me a line. Or an essay, essays are great too <3
> 
> I felt all along that I would finish this. That I would not abandon it as I've done plethora fan works & projects. There's something about Newt, I suppose, and Percival and Gellert grew on me, too. If I could, I would go on indefinitely. 
> 
> There are different kinds of endings, and this is not the definitive kind. I will probably not be able to resist spending time with these characters again, and to that end, I expect that down the line, months down the line, there may be single chapter sequels, spin-offs of spin-offs, whatever that might mean. So don't write me off completely, loves. 
> 
> And as ever, thank you for reading!
> 
> PS  
> we cover a lot of ground in this chapter, so buckle up. That animal, the salamander, is an axolotl. Wait for it :D

**Chapter 40** : By this Desert Land Enchanted

 

Margot remained for three days, and Floo’d in to check on Newt’s progress every third day for two weeks after. If Percival’s night vigils surprised her, she made no mention of it. Credence arrived, escorted by Tina, and assisted Percival with feeding Newt’s creatures. It took time, but Credence became less stilted around Percival. Tina took him back to New York after two days—she and Queenie were teaching him practical magic using their old Ilvermorny books. Tina had confided in Percival that Credence’s power would rival his own, when trained up a bit. 

In two days, Newt’s fever broke. On the third day he awoke, gasping, face beaded with sweat, to beg off favors.

“Slow down,” said Percival, holding a hand to Newt’s flushed cheek. “Newt, do you know where you are?”

Newt licked his dry lips, lucid blue-green eyes darting from Margot to Percival and back. He trapped a strange, short moan in the back of his throat.

“Please, not like this,” he muttered, squirming in the sweat-damp sheets, trying to back away but entangling himself instead. “Have the decency to wear your own face.”

“Here, you need to drink this,” Margot said gently.

“You’re not going to spell it directly down my throat?” Newt snarled hoarsely. 

“You’re at the Graves estate, Newt,” Percival said firmly, taking Newt’s cold hand into his own. The fever had retreated to leave Newt visibly chilled, face flushed and sweat cooling on his grimy skin. “You’ve woken me, and this is my sister, Margot. I told you about her on the Express. Remember?”

“You’re lying,” Newt said faintly. He looked uncertain, brows tilted and mouth compressed. Percival’s chest clenched.

“Short-term memory loss is a frequent side effect of overexposure to Felix Felicis… and what appears to be the something experimental, and likely illegal,” Margot recited. “Percy, you said you’d been traveling together?”

Percival leaned forward and said, “Remember the Golden Snidget? Grindelwald wouldn’t know about that, Newt. It’s me. I can prove it: _Ever watchful, ever wary, in the darkness the canary sings—its silence is a warning. Gold the herald of the morning._ ”

Newt ran a skeptical gaze over Percival and looked back at his hands. “You’ve been going through my mind like an album.”

“I switched the handkerchief and the ring, because I knew you couldn’t resist revisiting your past,” Percival said, his fingers closing on Newt’s wrist in their familiar fashion. Newt’s lips parted and he said,

“Percival! Merlin’s beard. I don’t…”

There was a faint knocking from the case. Margot moved away as they spoke, opened the case and something brushed her on its way out. Dougal faded into view, placed his hand upon Newt and Percival’s joined hands, and patted them. 

Newt let out something between a gasp and a stifled sob, and Dougal was on top of him, his arms a loose circle around Newt’s shoulders, his silky fur warm against Newt’s chest. Percival was clinging to Newt’s hand like his life depended on it. Margot stepped out.

Later, when Newt read, weak from thirst, his eyes begging for Felix even as he refused to voice his desire, there was a sharp tap on the window.

Percival rose from the armchair and rolled his stiff shoulders, arched and rotated his back. The wards buzzed on the edge of hearing. He waved his wand and opened the window by hand. The bird did not deign to descend, but the envelope fluttered from its claws, through the window, and into Percival’s hands.

His name was written on the thick, yellowed paper. Or rather, a nickname which only Margot was permitted to use. The wards and his diagnostic spells detected nothing untoward.

Percival tore open the letter. 

December 1927

_Dear Percy,_

_Do you think you can hide at your own estate? The wards may repel MACUSA for a day, but it is no long-term strategy. And how do you intend to clear your name if you associate with Tina Goldstein? With Flamel? Consider your alliances carefully, Percy. Kneedander is not long for MACUSA, and Grimsditch would negotiate with you given proper leverage._

_It is vital that you keep a close eye on Newton while he recovers. Felix encourages even modest wizards to overestimate their skill, and Newton habitually disregards his own safety._

_Do not fail._

_G_

Percival stared at the thin, curvy calligraphy, a pattern of black ink on yellow parchment. He brought his wand up to the letter, its tip glowing, and set the note alight. There was satisfaction in watching it float upwards and burn away to ash and a wisp of smoke. He locked the window.

“Burning your mail? Top secret Auror business?” said Newt, patting the bed beside him. Percival said _Hmm_ and nothing else. 

He mused for a long time, lying on his back on the duvet, listening to the measured breathing of his magizoologist. Why would the dark wizard begin a correspondence with Percival? What could Grindelwald hope to achieve?

The Auror in him wanted to confide in Newt and to delve into the matter, but he suspected that Newt would be just as puzzled, just as disturbed by the letter as Percival. Perhaps more. And Newt’s wrist was fragile in his grasp, his skin dry, his pale, worn face thin with sickness now he had drifted off to sleep. Percival frowned, and nudged the Niffler with his toe.

The kleptomaniac had taken to sleeping at their feet. Dougal would curl up on Newt’s chest or cling to his side, and Percival hadn’t the heart to send him back to the case. Pickett burrowed into Newt’s hair or reclined on the pillow. Percival had caught and remanded several Occamies, which had tried to glide from within the case after Dougal. He had undertaken the morning and evening rounds, though each round took Percival several hours of work, even after Credence’s instructions. He left Newt under the eye of extensive wards, the Cerberus, and his nest of creatures.

Margot had screamed when she had walked in on the three-headed dog while Percival was in the case. Eleusia had growled in harmony, and Margot had slammed the door and sent a Patronus after her brother. A shrill-voiced, silver hare had delivered a proper diatribe.

Percival thought of his stay in Yavorsky’s cabin and summoned a Patronus, but instead of his usual sleek panther, something eel-like and sinuous emerged from his wand. Percival blinked and the giant salamander gazed back with lidless eyes. Its rounded head appeared benevolent with its branching, swaying, fuzzy gills. A willowy tail extended and waved, the fin along its back oddly regal. It was a bizarre creature. Percival narrowed his eyes, wondering what had happened to his beautiful Patronus. He had been pleased with his panther, thank you very much. He sighed and sent it off. Margot would not let him live this down. 

And indeed, when he emerged, Margot gave him no rest.

“I wonder what it could possibly _mean_ ,” she laughed, and Percival had to restrain himself from Jinxing his sister.

“Will he be well enough to travel soon?” Percival interrupted.

“Give it another couple days for safety. Are you thinking a drier climate?”

“The mountains, perhaps,” Percival nodded, “The old cabin we had out there. But you know nothing, of course.”

“Not a thing, salamander,” Margot nodded, smirk still tugging at her lips.

*** 

Two months later, Newt was hunched behind a leafless wild rose shrub, peering over the hedge of brambles. His hands fumbled for a scrap of parchment and a pencil, and he had sketched a loose but remarkably lively likeness of the moth as it landed on a spiny branch. He was jotting down notes on its wing movement, its fluffy antennae and its coloration, precise and swift. The vivid, pale green moth appeared fluorescent in the dark.

The new moon allowed the stars full reign of the deep sky, and the Milky Way stretched like a stain across the heavens. Percival swallowed and tried not to stare. He had not seen Newt put pencil to parchment for too long. After his recovery, Newt had tried to go through his old notes, to revise the manuscript of the new, expanded edition. He would stare at and riffle through pages for hours, listless and impotent. Newt would never admit the author of a textbook could have writer’s block. But he had been unable or unwilling to sketch, too. Finding Newt at his naturalism now, absorbed and productive, Percival felt an odd lightness in his shoulders.

The moth flitted up and away. Newt was filling in the vegetation of the sketch, now, the thorny perch and the dried rosehips. 

“It’s not supposed to be here,” he said softly. “Not in February, certainly! It’s a mystery, Percival…though perhaps not an Auror-worthy mystery,” he gave a tiny smile. Percival thought his freckles resembled the galaxy stretching above them. He plucked a rosehip from the bush, then another. Newt joined him, and toward dawn they made rosehip tea over their campfire.

Newt no longer stared off into the distance with glazed eyes, swallowing and licking his lips as though he was dying of thirst. The cravings had abated, as had the tossing and sweating. They had stayed in Percival’s family cabin for several weeks before Newt grew restless. Now they would check into motels in small towns on their trek west, taking the occasional train. One of these was a wizarding settlement, where Percival had bought Newt a hippogriff calendar. This hung on the wall of his shed, and various bright-eyed beasts (Newt could identify all the breeds) glared and snorted and beat their hooves in the photographs.

Percival still awoke panting from nightmares, and too often found Newt awake and gazing into the ashes of their campfire. The magizoologist would wait for Percival to calm before moving closer. They would drift off to sleep again near daybreak, Newt holding Percival’s head to his chest, cradling him in careful hands, Percival listening to the steady beat of Newt’s heart, arms curling about his torso.

They had negotiated this position through trial and error. A memorable faux-pas when Percival brushed the back of Newt’s neck had sent Newt into a panicked state. Percival didn’t ask after the cigarette burn just beneath Newt’s hairline, and Newt didn’t volunteer any information. But occasionally they did speak, when the silence grew oppressive and the night seemed endless.  
  
“Were you dreaming?” Percival asked, finding Newt sitting up, knees held to his chest, gaze fixed on the ground before him. He had drawn a triangle, circle and line in the dirt, which had caked in dark half-moons beneath his nails.

“After a fashion,” Newt said ironically, a wry twist to his lips. Percival furrowed his brows and waited.

“Go on,” he said, after the silence had stretched and stretched.

“I don’t,” Newt palmed the ground, erasing the symbol. He was distraught, his eyes gave him away even as his voice and face seemed calm. Newt swallowed. “It’s perverse. I don’t want you to... but I can’t seem to,” he exhaled roughly and frowned. “The substance of your nightmares…it’s what I dream of.”

He winced and paused. Percival gazed steadily from beneath his brows, eyes warm and receptive. Newt shook his head.

“At first I thought it was a curse, but I think it’s me,” he whispered. “Perce, I miss him, sometimes. Not the torture…but the contact, the control.”

When Newt risked a look at Percival, the man did not look disgusted so much as puzzled and distant. This time, the silence made Newt flush unpleasantly.

“I know it sounds insane, ungrateful, I,” Percival held up a hand and Newt broke off.

“He had eyes only for you. And he saved your dragons,” Percival breathed, finally. “Do you wish to seek him out?” he asked, and there was something painfully tight in his voice.

“What? No, Percival, I’m not a fanatic. You know I’m not! I don’t agree with what he says and does! Forgive me, love, I should never have said…”

“But you crave him?” said Percival, and there was something caustic in his voice. “The darkest wizard of the age, interested in you?”

“I don’t know,” Newt said desperately, eyes full and turned to Percival now. “It’s got mixed up in my mind, with the potions and Legilimency. I just know that when I wake, I feel guilty, inescapably guilty. There’s something wrong with me, Perce. You helped me escape the grasp of the potion. It feels too much to ask, that you help me in this, too,” Newt looked down to where his hand was scrabbling at the ground, gouging around the roots of the nearest maple. “You’ve done so much for me, Percival. I should be a comfort and I’ve been a burden. I know I remind you of him, and I wouldn’t blame you if you took off.”

Percival was pursing his lips, but the tension had drained from his shoulders and his expression softened. 

“Didn’t you say you loved me?” he said, voice milder now. “Do you want me to leave, Newt?”

“You need to take care of yourself. I understand,” Newt said, voice so soft that it shook.

“Answer the question,” said Percival, with all the command of a former DMLE. Newt’s head jerked up and he met intent, dark eyes with startled eyes. 

“I do…” Newt said, and his voice grew stronger, “I love you, Percival.”

Percival nodded.

“Yes,” he said, “I thought as much. Come here,” he embraced Newt, and said, “Tell me more, when you are ready. I told you before, I would take what you are willing to give. I have not changed my mind, Newt. I would be willing to take control, but only after we determine your limits. I refuse to enter into such territory blindly.”

Newt’s breath was ragged in the crook of Percival’s neck.

“Do you understand, Newt?”

“I do,” Newt muttered, and pressed a tentative, soft kiss to the side of Percival’s mouth.

 

* * * 

February 1928

_Dear Percy,_

_I am delighted with Newton’s progress. Do keep taking him on those long walks, it is restoring his_ joie de vivre. _Yeti sightings have been reported just west of your location. Mind the bear traps._

_G_

Percival burned this letter, and Newt suggested they head south, back into the mountains. He wanted to find a good place to let the phoenix stretch its wings. The phoenix chick had grown a downy feather coat of softest red feathers, and tripled in size. His longer feathers were taking time to come in. Newt frowned and fed it supplements and one day, thought up a name.

“After the gunpowder plot fellow?” Percival said, watching Newt pipette a concentrated rosehip solution onto the sprouted seeds in the little bowl. “Wasn’t he tortured to death?”

“He fell to his death, just before his execution, actually. But I envision a fiery success in store for this one,” Newt insisted, “though I’m glad you know the Empire’s history.”

“Know your enemy,” said Percival, into the curls behind Newt’s ear. Newt shrugged and continued to count the drops. Percival leaned forward and engaged his tongue and teeth along Newt’s throat.

The magizoologist promptly lost count.

 

***

March 1928

_Dear Percy,_

_Do mind reports concerning salamander trafficking in your southwestern states. Kindly restrain Newton from throwing himself into the fray with impetuous abandon. It would also behoove you to track the operation’s network; you may find something to your advantage._

_Give Newton my warmest regards,_

_G_  
  
Percival set the missive aflame after his eyes ran over the text once, twice. He did not pass on any regards.

Two weeks later, they were on a train to Arizona. Newt wished to visit some creature or other, and Percival felt it a good idea they disappear. It unnerved him, how easily Grindelwald was tracking their movements.

  

The fourth note was delivered by griffon vulture, a species more common to Switzerland, Newt mentioned in passing. A hawk-owl dropped another letter soon after. Percival read and burned the first note, and then unrolled the second one.

“Margot’s joined Flamel’s Order,” said Percival, not looking up from the scroll. Newt, who was collecting spring water into his expanded flask, trousers rolled to the knee and bare feet cooled by the pebbles and water, did not respond. He capped the flask and walked across a short stretch of sand and sagebrush to their camp, wiggling his toes in the adhering sand.

“She says hello,” Percival continued, scanning the letter, eyes shadowed by his woven straw hat. The sun had flushed his exposed skin brilliant pink. His Irish ancestry threatening sunburn, Percival sought out shade. “And invites us to stop in with her on our way back.”

“They’re recruiting you,” Newt said, the corners of his eyes crinkling in familiar fondness, mouth slanted in Newt’s not-quite smirk. It was more an expression of bemused interest, a benevolent inquiry, Percival reflected.

“Do I have something on my face?” said Newt, and Percival gestured him over under the provided pretense.

Newt’s self-consciousness might have been charming if they hadn’t been working so long to restore Newt’s trust in his own reactions. Percival wished he could burn the treacherous bastard like he had his note. Nevermind that the intel Grindelwald insisted on providing was useful. Nevermind he was growing to depend on the wretched bastard.

Newt knelt next to him, said, “Is there an insect on my face? There are some curious specimens in the area,” he paused again, eyes playful and knowing, and Percival’s thumb was running across his upper lip, and then Newt leaned forward. They shared a soft kiss, another, and Newt tilted his head as Percival wound a hand to the small of his back, Newt reaching up to embrace him. Percival licked at Newt’s lips and into his pliant mouth. They had discussed it, so when Percival spelled Newt’s wrists above his head, Newt tugged to test the restraint and stretched luxuriously, rolling his spine and his neck and flushing when he caught Percival’s eye. The water flask lay abandoned. 

“All right?” Percival said, and Newt nodded, enthusiastic, his eyes brighter than Percival recalled. Percival said _Hmm_ into his jaw and wound one hand around Newt’s waist, the other tilting the magizoologist’s head. His ran his hands over Newt’s extended arms, feeling the lean muscle beneath the cotton of his shirt. Newt closed his eyes and the tension went out of his body like a vine of Devil’s Snare on a sunny day. He arched his back, reaching towards Percival, who moved back.

“You complete tease,” Newt snapped, writhing in the magical bonds. Percival’s lip curled as he went to Newt’s case, tugging it open to withdraw the striped scarf. He paused with the air of one considering how to proceed, then stepped around Newt and tied the scarf over the top part of his face, blocking Newt’s sight. The magizoologist was blind, sitting on his knees, arms held above his head by Percival’s steady magic.

“Bit warm for winter clothing?” said Newt nervously, and was rewarded with a breathy chuckle in the vicinity of his collarbone. Percival was undoing his tie, the buttons of his shirt. He placed his hands beneath Newt’s suspenders, caressing his shoulders, and checked in again.

“Get on with it!” Newt growled, “Yes, please. Dammit Graves!”

Afterward, they took tea and a nap in the shade. It was much too warm to track their quarry during the day, even in winter. Percival suspected Newt was sparing him; after their first full day of hiking, exhausted and sunburned, Percival had been close to collapse. Newt made one quip about office life and paperwork and then led Percival into his shed, where he fussed over him with potions, water and even chocolate. When Percival called him out on it, Newt had leveled him with a glare and the threat of feeding his fried brains to the Swooping Evil, if he had any. Percival relented.

He had recovered enough to follow Newt during the evening rounds, at the end of which they cooled off in Fawkes’s alpine habitat.

“You’re looking dapper today, Fawkes,” Newt said, scratching carefully at the small feathers atop the young phoenix’s head. Fawkes chirped one short, musical note and gazed expectantly at Newt, who grinned brightly and laid out his food. Then his expression turned serious.

“I’m concerned about Tina’s last letter,” Newt said, shaking out the seeds lodged between his fingers. “Her name is becoming a real problem.”

“The atmosphere is certainly deteriorating quickly,” Percival assented, “But short of Revolution, which we agree is not our method of choice, I’m not sure how we can help.”

“I’ve been thinking. If we can clear one of our names, we might substitute it for hers,” Newt said, watching Fawkes eat. He stepped back and sat on the wood walkway next to Percival. They were wearing their winter coats against the alpine chill.

“You’re proposing one of us marry Tina?” said Percival sharply.

“Why not? If she’s not found someone else, and it helps her career, it might be a viable option,” Newt shrugged. “A social convention to guard her, of course. Just on paper, just until she finds someone she wants to marry for real. We might go so far as to legally adopt Credence, give him a new name if he wants it…Or is divorce very difficult to obtain?”

Percival frowned and ran a hand through Newt’s unruly hair. Pickett peeked out of it and stuck his tongue out at Percival. 

“You know, you’re crazy…but that just might work,” he said thoughtfully. “There is the matter of clearing your name, first, but I’ve been working on that from the American angle. Perhaps you should write your brother, tackle it from another side. You don’t seem to correspond much, do you?”

Newt’s expression soured, but he nodded, and Summoned his fancy Voges quill, courtesy of Tina. He drafted a letter to Emilia Longbottom, with whom Theseus was wont to stay in times of stress. Judging by the rare glimpses at newspaper headlines, Grindelwald was ensuring that the whole of Europe was in great distress.

“Jobberknoll, are you up to the task? It’s a long flight,” Newt muttered, and his silent blue bird hopped on one foot, then the other, as though eager to stretch its wings. “You’re a good girl,” Newt said, securing the letter to its leg with magic. “Be sure to take breaks, you hear? And I don’t want you flying through hurricanes again.”  
  
The Jobberknoll nipped at his knuckle, lightly, and took off in soaring circles about the case. Newt shook his head and climbed out of the case, letting the Jobberknoll out. He pushed Horace the Niffler back down, and gave Percival a hand up, too.

“My turn to cook tomorrow,” Percival muttered, when Newt reached for the canned beans in their tent. “I was thinking something less rustic.”

“Is that why you set up those fishing Spells in the canyon?” said Newt, looking up from beneath his fringe. “I was afraid you were taking it up in your retirement.”

Percival’s narrowed eyes portended trouble, so Newt hid his smile and ducked instinctively to avoid the nonverbal Tickling charm, only to be caught on Percival’s follow-up Tripping jinx, which sent him sprawling onto their sleeping mat. Percival’s expression was innocent when Newt glared at him.

“Now that sort of behavior is beneath you,” Newt muttered, clothing and hair mussed beyond the usual. Percival grinned wickedly and said,

“We’ll see who’s beneath whom, Mr. Scamander.”

They both winced and laughed. An irritated Pickett sprang out of Newt’s ruffled curls and Percival cracked the case for him.

“He’s never left in a huff before. I think you’re making progress with the separation anxiety,” Percival observed, wide palms smoothing Newt’s hair. Newt extended his neck and nestled into Percival’s lap and sighed, exasperated and pleased.

   
Newt awoke panting, and took deep, measured breaths until his pulse ceased to beat violently in his ears and the taste of sweetness left his mouth, the feel of fingers running across his jaw and the back of his neck faded. He could not distinguish between nightmares and fragments of memory. Had Grindelwald pushed his head down, holding him by the hair, Newt’s mouth stretching, jaw clicking…it made him sick, and the accompanying pleasure made Newt burn with shame. When they were near a cold mountain brook he would douse himself and walk into the current, the shock of the cold water regenerative and soothing, both. In the desert, where water could only be found in shallow springs and in the depths of narrow canyons, Newt contented himself with slowing his heart rate through measured breathing.

Percival blinked awake beside him, all quiet attention. The ceiling of the tent, enchanted to one-way transparency, displayed a clear sky and what had become familiar constellations.

“Let me help,” Percival muttered into the side of his head. Newt’s entire body spasmed with the jittery aftershocks of the dream, oversensitivity and shame suffusing his face with blood. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, love. Let me take care of you?”

Newt felt shivery and he thought Gellert had said something similar, had whispered it into his ear. But oh, he craved…

“It’s not right, Perce, it’s not fair to you,” Newt muttered, turning onto his side to meet glittering dark eyes.

“It’s up to you, of course,” Percival said, “but why not take this and turn it into something good?”  
  
Newt’s voice broke when he made his preferences known. Percival nodded, unconsciously wetting his lips. He had not had occasion to be creative with the spells he typically used to restrain prisoners, but the sight of Newt flushed and stretched taut gave Percival _ideas_ that surprised the former-Auror. Newt’s half-lidded eyes gleamed, strangely sultry in his vulnerability. Percival bit little bruises down his jawline and across his chest.

Newt was shuddering for different reasons before morning.

  

They slept late, as they had been doing regularly for weeks. The beasts grew used to the shifted rhythm, even as Newt lamented the sorry schedule. Percival had made it clear he thought sleep more important, and Newt relented.

That evening they ate the rainbow trout Percival had caught, with some help from Newt, who knew the proper Spells for catching and scaling fish. Percival let Newt gut the fish and took over from there. Newt’s iron skillet and his Sirram Volcano Kettle were put to use.  
  
“Got it from Ireland, it’s modeled after the Samovar, I think,” Newt said, when Percival commented on his unconventional kettle. “You don’t want to know what happened to my last kettle. Suffice it to say, it was dented beyond repair.”

They packed everything up and scattered sand over their fire pit. An hour after sunset, Newt and Percival descended on the camp two miles south of theirs. The night brought a chill to the air, and they were wearing their coats over shirtsleeves, like true barbarians, Percival had said. Newt had informed him that barbarians usually went about with fewer and tough clothes, and the conversation had deteriorated.

Disillusioned and silent, Newt unlocked the fireproof cages and released the Salamanders, which scattered. Several ran along the poachers’ tents and set them aflame. Newt shrugged and went about collecting the eggs with oven mitts. Meanwhile, Percival stepped into the leader’s tent and flipped through the papers, searching out any contacts the poachers had. In the chaos of flames and escaping Salamanders, not a single poacher noticed his snooping.

“They seemed a little off, a little too easy,” Newt said, when Percival met him by the canyon. He had stowed the eggs in his case. “I mean, they were singing and laughing and not paying any attention to their surroundings at all. One would think they’d be a little more careful?”

“They were drunk off their asses,” Percival said, smirk wicked in the twilight. “I might have poured the rest of their cheap Firewhiskey on their survival gear.”

“Since you couldn’t arrest them,” Newt tilted his head stared in the distance. “Were they connected to the disappearance of the Puffskein dealer in California, do you think?”

“If there’s proof, it’s here,” said Percival, indicating the stack of papers beneath his arm. Newt squinted into the distance, where a speck was growing larger on the horizon. “Should we find cover?” Percival asked, at Newt’s concentrated frown.

“No, I don’t believe it,” Newt said, but his voice had laughter in it. “He must be coming round to see what all the fires are about! No wonder it’s been a good season, fewer wildfires since he’s been back… and I thought I’d have to search him out by the weather patterns! He’s been nearby all along!”  
  
“Newt?” said Percival, eyes widening as the growing speck approached, larger than any bird had a right to be. Percival was unpleasantly reminded of the dragons.

Newt’s face looked younger as he gazed out across the valley and at Frank’s gleaming golden wings in the pale light. He held the case at his side. Pickett was perched on his shoulder and Percival stood beside him, meters from the edge of the canyon. An arid wind shuffled their coats and hair.

“Don’t worry, it’s Frank,” Newt said, as if this explained the rearing feathered beast that looked like it might devour them with its curved beak. The enormous bird landed on clawed feet, perching on the edge of the canyon. Its eyes were fierce, and Percival found that he had taken a step back. Newt, however, had rushed to Frank, who bowed his impressive head, vicious beak and all, to butt gently at Newt’s torso. All three pairs of wings beat and folded in excitement. 

Newt was laughing, tears glinting in his eyes as he hugged the impressive Thunderbird, laugh lines pronounced and eyes crinkling. Percival gave a hoarse laugh, too, half fright and half exasperation.  
  
“This is who I have to thank for Obliviating half of New York, I take it,” Percival said, gazing at the impressive beast dubiously.

Newt talked at Frank for a long time, and then rummaged about his case and fed him a skinned rabbit. Frank devoured it, gave a cry and flapped up. Newt said something excitedly about following him and tugged Percival along, his case swinging in his other hand.

Frank did not disappoint. He led them to the base of a rocky hill, at the top of which towered an arch, dark and mysterious against the wide, starry sky.

“This place is known among Muggles for rock formations, but this…might be his nest, up there!” Newt squinted up, throwing his head back. It was difficult to make out the heights in the dark. The stars were more numerous than ever, distant pinpricks of light all across the deep blue sky. Frank flew up to his nest and Newt and Percival pitched their tent at the base of the arch.

They slept surprisingly well after setting fire to the poachers’ camp. Rising at dawn as he had for most of his life, Percival couldn’t find Newt in his case or the tent. A wrinkle formed between his eyebrows and Percival emerged from the tent to look around. It was only then he saw the striped red-browns of the rocks they had camped on, the terracotta and ochre layers of weathered stone in the rock formations. Newt waved down at him from the top of the arch, where Frank was perched, wings folded, preening. Newt wore his shirtsleeves rolled. Early rays of morning sun cast the wide sky into pale, cloudless blue. The sun glanced off Newt’s auburn hair.

Percival Apparated to stand beside him, and Frank startled and took off, enormous wings unfolding, wind stirring their hair and threatening Percival’s balance. Newt grabbed Percival’s flailing hand and steadied him from where he sat. 

“We’ve got work to do,” Newt said, shading his eyes with his scarred right hand to better watch Frank’s flight.

“Indeed,” said Percival, his gaze resting on the horizon, his hand resting in Newt’s. He sat down beside his magizoologist and tossed his dark hair from his eyes. “There is the matter of clearing your name, love,” he turned to peer into Newt’s squinting blue-green eyes.

“I’m not worried about that,” said Newt. “I’ve got Percival Graves on the case.”

Percival’s lip quirked and he arched a brow.

“A case of the damned leading the damned,” he said, voice like gravel. “Haven’t you heard? Graves is dead.”

“You can’t trust everything you read,” said Newt, turning to face Percival, a faint blush enveloping his tan. The sunlight had brought more freckles to his face, and Percival enjoyed them almost as much as he enjoyed eliciting a reaction by the timber of his voice. “Besides, to have died a little and lived puts one beyond the reach of the law, of fear…hmm,” he paused, gazing into the distance, blue eyes darker than the morning sky.

Percival glanced down at their joined hands, and ran his fingers along the scarred back of Newt’s knuckles. 

“Jobberknoll,” Newt said suddenly, and Percival wondered _what?_ When he indeed saw the silent little bird approaching. “Wonder if she was staying away until Frank left? She always was leery of larger birds,” Newt murmured, holding out his left arm. The Jobberknoll landed on the provided perch, pecked at its left wing and gave a little shake of its body. Newt praised it as he undid the magic binding the letter to its foot.

“It’s not Theseus,” he said, his face unreadable as he scanned the letter. Though Percival could easily peer over his shoulder, he kept his gaze on the Jobberknoll and snuck glances at Newt’s face, which was steadily turning redder. By the end of the letter, Newt was flushed, red traveling down his neck and beneath his shirtsleeves.

“What is it?” Percival asked, and Newt thrust the letter into his grasp wordlessly.

_Dear Newt,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. Your bird really is unusual! I must confess that I was puzzled when I first received your letter. Upon reflection, I see that there must have been some fault in communication, one which it may not be my place to correct. Nevertheless, I shall endeavor to set the facts straight despite the potential damage. I do this not out of spite for Theseus, whom I loved, but out of respect for our acquaintance, Newt._

_It pains me to be the bearer of sensitive news, but I feel I must inform you that I have not spoken with Theseus for over a year. I have heard rumor, which I unfortunately can now confirm, that Theseus has had a new sweetheart. Newt, he has been frequenting the society galas with your friend Leta Lestrange. I thought you must know, and I hope this is not news to you, but I think it right to report it in the event that Theseus has not been straightforward. Your relations are, of course, between the two of you. But as your association with Leta was a close one, forgive me my presumption, I felt you ought to be made aware in case you were ignorant of these developments. I know you are often traveling and beyond the reach of news, let alone society gossip._  
  
_I would forward your letter directly, but I did not part with your brother on terms that suggest he would read anything I send. I have taken the liberty of forwarding your concerned inquiry to Leta Lestrange. I hope this was not remiss of me._

_I remain your sincere friend,_

_Emma Longbottom_

Percival gathered his lips into a skeptical bow as he read, and said, “Verbose, isn’t she?”

“That bastard,” Newt ground out. He was squeezing Percival’s hand in his, and when Percival squeezed back Newt stopped at once, as though he had not realized what he had been doing.

“Newt?” 

“I could ruin him! I don’t have to see his face or hear his excuses,” Newt said quickly, then added, slowly, “Gellert made a deal with him during the war. It’s no different from me, now.”

“You could,” Percival agreed. “You could do exactly what Grindelwald would want. Or you could challenge Theseus to a duel over Leta, I suppose, if you want to be old-fashioned about it.”

“Thee’s entire career was based on that battle. It would reveal him for a fraud.”

“As a fired Director, I must say, it’s been more reward than punishment in some respects,” Percival’s lip curled and he snaked a hand around Newt’s waist. “If there’s anything the years have taught me, it’s to pick my battles. And I didn’t take you for the vengeful sort, Newt,” Percival said softly. He put the letter into his pocket and took Newt’s hand again, stroking his wrist softly, encircling the narrowest part of it.

Newt seemed to deflate. He exhaled a long, ragged sigh, and draped his head onto Percival’s shoulder.

“It’s not entirely unexpected: Thee’s been making eyes at Leta for years. I should probably be grateful it didn’t happen sooner,” he closed his eyes and swallowed. “What would I do without you, Perce?”

“Learn from your own mistakes instead of mine, I would imagine,” Percival glanced sideways. “Is it breakfast time?” 

“For my creatures,” Newt nodded.  
  
  
He was distracted all through the morning rounds. Fawkes sensed his distress and gazed sadly at Newt, tilting its head.

"Your phoenix looks like it's about to cry," Percival observed, and then his eyes widened. Newt's expression was dumbstruck, too, but he conjured a vial and caught the single tear that slid from Fawkes' beady, black eye.

"Merlin's balls, Perce," Newt muttered, gazing at the droplet that glimmered like a diamond in the artificial sunlight.   
  
"That's worth quite a bit," Percival said, "But I think I know what to do with it."  
  
He extended his hand, and Newt gave Percival the vial without hesitation.   
  
"Lie down, Artemis," Percival said, in a tone that brooked no argument, using the name they had agreed upon for certain acts.  
  
Newt was distracted. He blinked, licked his lips and said, "Poor Fawkes must be sad, cooped up all alone. I wonder why he refused to fly off in the Rockies? Perhaps he wants to be a familiar..."  
  
"On your stomach. Now," Percival repeated. Newt raised his brows but proceeded to do as ordered. Percival's low, commanding tone had not failed to make him blush.  
  
The wood of the walkway was grainy against his cheek. They had only been checking in with Fawkes, and were not dressed for the cold. Percival lifted the sweaty shirt from Newt's back, rolling it up, and carefully upended the vial directly onto the healed wound on Newt's lower back. The tear rolled slowly down the wall of the glass vial and spilled onto the center of the Deathly Hallows carved into Newt's flesh. Percival watched carefully. The drop remained there, and then the red scar took on a white glow. The tear seemed to dissolve into Newt's scarred skin, and slowly, the mark began to fade. Percival lifted the vial. His dark eyes glinted bright when they met Newt's hopeful gaze.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Thanks for readin'](https://ibb.co/iVnrTy)


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